Stronger Than One
by sparemysins
Summary: Lyna Mahariel has always been a survivor, but when a Blight threatens to destroy all she loves, she must learn to be something much more: a savior. A closer look at Dragon Age: Origins.
1. An Easy Shot

_"Fly straight and do not waver. Bend but never break. Together we are stronger than one. We are the last of the elvhenan and never again shall we submit."_ - Vir Tanadhal

**Chapter One  
**_An Easy Shot_

It wouldn't be an easy shot. The shemlen were at least fifty yards away and running—not very quickly, but a moving target was a moving target. And yet, Mahariel'd had tougher marks. If a rabbit couldn't outmaneuver her bow, what chance did a trio of wheezing shemlen stand?

After a moment's indecision, the skinny shem came down with an acute case of arrow-through-the-throat. His friends stumbled over his corpse, too shocked to scream. Not to be outdone, Tamlen buried an arrow of his own in the fat one's chest. Mahariel struck the third in the eye before her friend could steal her target.

It was a game of theirs, counting kills. Not that they enjoyed the bloodshed, but killing was sometimes the only way to survive, to protect their people. A little friendly competition just made their duty more palatable. Or maybe it was _winning_ the friendly competition that brought Mahariel comfort. Gods knew she was over a dozen kills ahead now. Tamlen wasn't a bad shot, but she was the best marksman in their clan.

They each emerged from their hiding places on either side of the road. Tamlen paused over the bodies, considering the one with the arrow in its eye. "Good shot," he nodded appreciatively. Mahariel plucked her arrow out, wiping off the blood.

"Easy shot. He wasn't even moving."

Tamlen snorted. "Easy. _Right_." He yanked his own arrow from the fat one. "Weren't you supposed to be working with Master Ilen today? Instead of out here, stealing my kills."

"Can't steal what isn't yours, lethallin," Mahariel sang, flicking her friend's nose. He smacked her hand away. "Aw, don't be that way. You know you love me."

"I do," he grumbled. "But from a distance. A very great distance. Like when I am hunting and you are back at camp, playing apprentice with Ilen."

She smirked, stowing her arrows back in their quiver. "Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night."

"Do you think we should we move them?"

"Not worth the effort. Let's see if they've got anything worth taking and leave them to the animals."

"They were running. Not from us," he observed, glancing up and down the path for the mysterious threat. There was nothing to see.

Mahariel shrugged. "Maybe they were late for dinner?"

"I don't think this one's been late for a meal in his life," Tamlen grinned, kneeling to rifle through the fat one's pockets. He came up with a scrap of bread and a few coins.

She pulled much the same from her first corpse, but the second was hiding something interesting. A stone tablet, warm to the touch and crumbled around the edges. An elegant scrawl was carved into its face, but not in any language she knew. She passed it to Tamlen. "Maybe it had something to do with this?"

"Interesting," he murmured, caressing the engraving. "You know what this is, don't you?"

Mahariel rolled her eyes. "Don't you think I would be lording it over you if I had any clue what it was?"

"Good point," he laughed. "You should have paid more attention to Marethari's lessons. This is ancient elvish."

"Where in the Void would these shems have gotten _that_?"

"No idea, but I aim to find out." She could practically see the visions of glory dancing in Tamlen's eyes. Dragging back some ancient trinket full of lost wisdom, riding on the shoulders of their clanmates as they cheered his name. He was, as usual, getting ahead of himself.

"Easy, boy. For all we know, these shems stole it from some other shems who stole it from somewhere far, far away. Someone might have just copied this inscription so they could _call_ it an elvhen artifact and charge triple. The shemlen know how valuable our old shit is to us."

Tamlen snorted. "Maybe. But I still think we should check it out. Who knows? There might be more 'old shit' where this came from."

"Of course we'll investigate, lethallin. I just hate it when you get your hopes up. You always get disappointed and then you make this _face_ and I—I—"

"You—you? You what?" He smirked, knowing very well what she was trying to say.

Mahariel glared. "If you were a better liar I might think you were faking all that despair just so I would comfort you."

"Comfort? Is that what it is?"

She punched him—not lightly—in the shoulder. Obligingly, he pretended to be thrown off balance. Taking her hand in his, Tamlen led them back down the path the shems had followed. "Come on," he said. "We're wasting daylight."

* * *

The shemlen had left an easy path to follow, their heavy footfalls still outlined in the mud. Tamlen—being _Tamlen_—followed the trail to its end in less than a half hour.

"I never noticed this before," he said, brushing some of the growth back from the cave's entrance. Cool, damp air wafted up from its mouth. Mahariel frowned.

"I hate caves," she complained, pulling her cloak a little tighter.

"Then stay out here," Tamlen shrugged. "I'm sure they'll remember you in the songs. You know, the ones they'll sing after I discover something incredible down here and reunite the clans. You could be my adorable, bumbling sidekick."

"I am _not_ adorable," Mahariel muttered.

"Yes you are. Especially when you do that grumpy little—Yes! That!" He was still laughing when she shoved him into the lip of the cave.

"After you, _Shartan_," she gestured to the darkness awaiting them.

"You're the one with the fire," he answered with a pointed glance. He had a point.

Mahariel didn't have much magic—not like Merrill or Marethari—but it was enough for a few flames. The Keeper had tried to teach her other magics too, like healing, but no one was surprised to discover her only talent seemed to be burning shit down. Ashalle could attest to that.

Using limbs and leaves from the ground, Tamlen assembled a pair of torches. With a small gesture from her, they both burst into flame. He took the lead, obviously eager to see what secrets the darkness held.

The cave opened into a rectangular chamber, the floor little more than powdered stone and dirt at this point. Roots and brambles jutted up through the ground to climb the sturdy stone columns. Even mostly ruined, the structure was clearly human.

"Interesting," Tamlen said, reading her mind. "What would such an old elvhen artifact be doing in human ruins?"

"Slaves? Theft? A pretty bauble to demonstrate the wealth and might of the shemlen?"

"Such a cynic," he teased, nudging her in the ribs.

"Realist," Mahariel corrected, smiling despite herself.

"What do you suppose this building used to be?"

There was really no way to tell. It was just dust and bones now. Equal measures rubble and animal shit. Whatever had been was gone now. Except for the stone tablet tucked into her pack. "How in the void am I supposed to know? I never paid attention to my lessons, remember?"

"Someone's a little touchy today," Tamlen said.

"It's this place. Something about it is… off. " It made her itch in that unreachable spot right between her shoulder blades. Made her look over her shoulder every five seconds. Made the hairs on her arms stand straight up. And yet — her heart was hammering in her chest with something that wasn't quite fear. Her blood was burning so hot she couldn't even _feel_ the chill of the cavern. Maybe it was just nerves. Felt an _awful_ lot like excitement, though.

"I know," Tamlen agreed. "I feel it, too."

They ventured deeper into the ruin, treading more carefully now. The further from the mouth they moved, the _darker_ the darkness felt. Even as she fed their flames, the light felt meager and ineffective. Had the shemlen seen something down here? Something that made them run without caring about footprints or snapped limbs? It was more likely that they had fled from their own shadows. The thought had crossed Mahariel's mind, as well. Were she anything less than Dalish, she might have indulged it.

Tamlen's hand found hers once more as they passed into an even larger chamber — so large that the other end was masked in shadows. "Gods above, lethallan. You're on fire!" He freed his hand, pressing the back of his palm to her cheeks. She swatted him away.

"It's just the magic, Tamlen. I'm fine."

He didn't look convinced. "Mahariel—" he began, but she covered his mouth. Maybe she was imagining things, but it sounded like —

It flew at them from the shadows, big and black and too fast to identify. Mahariel managed to leap out of the way, but Tamlen was blindsided, toppled and trapped underneath the creature.

Being more of a 'shoot first, ask questions later' kind of woman, she leapt into action. Drawing a sharpened dagger into each hand, Mahariel charged, sinking both blades deep into the beast's hairy back. It shrieked and danced backward, giving Tamlen the opportunity he needed to find his feet. Once he was clear, she didn't waste time in putting the monster to flame.

No sooner had the first one gone down — some kind of spider by the look of its smoldering corpse — than another emerged, shrieking, from the shadows. It reared up on its lower legs, shooting webbing from its underbelly. Mahariel wasn't quick enough this time and the gauzy substance hit her with enough force to knock her to the ground. Coated in a sticky oil, she found that fighting only made the cocoon grow tighter.

"Definitely a spider," she growled, struggling to reach her dagger. With torches rolling, useless across the floor, there was no telling how Tamlen fared against the monster. Aside from the thing's awful shrieks and his occasional grunt or swear, she had no indication he was even alive.

When the web grew tight enough to make breathing difficult, Mahariel conceded that her weapons were out of the question. Her options seemed to be waiting for Tamlen to free her or waiting for the web to magically untangle itself. Or she supposed she could just wait to get eaten alive by a giant spider.

They weren't great options; she lacked the necessary patience.

After a moment's struggle, Mahariel managed to twist her palms upward until they were pressed against the constricting fabric. She had never expended so much energy on magic so quickly — not successfully, anyway — but she didn't see any other choices. With her heart was still hammering and her blood burning hotter than ever, she knew at least that the fire was there, waiting to be harnessed.

Practicing the techniques Marethari had taught her, she focused on that heat and channeled it, willed it down to her palms. The flesh there blazed with concentrated energy and she struggled to force it _out_. This was the hardest part, the part where she always failed. The fire was there, no question, but she lacked the strength to command it. It was why they'd adopted Merrill from another clan, why she would never be a Keeper. It was also why she was about to burn herself alive.

Tamlen had been right about one thing: there would certainly be stories about this little adventure. And she would _definitely_ be bumbling. Bumbling herself to an early, smoldering grave.

"Lethallan!" Mahariel heard his voice, wondered if it was real or a hallucination. Not that she lacked confidence in his ability to kill giant spiders that shot glue from their arseholes, but because she had a tendency to hallucinate in this state. Not that she'd ever told him this, but this had happened before. Not the giant-spiders-of-death part, but the accidentally-self-combusting part. It was why Marethari had stopped her lessons.

Mysteriously, the webbing loosened around her, bringing some relief. Between the darkness and her heat delirium she couldn't be sure why—maybe she had managed to singe them off after all—but it didn't really seem to matter. Breathing was a little easier. Distantly she heard the soothing rumble of Tamlen's voice, but the words didn't make any sense.

"Did you kill it?" Mahariel tried to ask, but she garbled the words.

Tamlen, real or not, seemed to understand and laughed, pulling her close. "It was an easy shot."


	2. Friend of the Dead

**Chapter Two  
**_Friend of the Dead_

She woke in Tamlen's arms, naked, damp, and cold. The first three were not entirely unusual, but the cold was new. So was the headache.

"Lyna?" He whispered, his eyes more intense than she'd ever seen. She remembered the spiders, of course, but they felt a bit unreal, like a dream she hadn't quite shaken. "Emma vhenan, can you hear me?"

"You're two inches away, Tamlen," Mahariel mumbled, stifling a yawn. "Of course I can hear you." He heaved a sigh, shoulders drooping in relief. "Though I _am_ wondering why I'm naked." She might have understood if he wasn't still in his leathers, covered in sweat, grime, and gore. Not that she usually forgot that sort of thing, but they were young and the gods could forgive them if they sometimes over-indulged in drink and herb.

"You were burning up," he explained, twining a lock of her dark hair around his finger. "I didn't know what else to do."

"Well," she smiled, sitting up a little straighter in his lap. "You saved me. But now I'm cold." Mahariel pouted playfully, cuddling closer. "You should save me from that, too."

Tamlen gaped at her. "You want to —_Here? Now?_" At her enthusiastic nod, he leaned backward. "Lethallan, you nearly _died_. Not five minutes ago, in _this_ accursed cave, you nearly died! We should go back, have Marethari make sure —"

"Don't be dramatic," she rolled her eyes. "I just passed out. A little magic exhaustion isn't going to _kill_ me." A blatant lie. She wasn't sure how close to death she'd been, but Marethari had told her in no uncertain terms that the fever could easily kill her. But Tamlen didn't need to know that just yet. Maybe never if she could get away with it.

"You're mad," Tamlen said, shaking his head at her but smiling.

"You love it," Mahariel smirked, drawing him in for a kiss, tender and sweet. He pressed his forehead against hers, staying so close she could _feel_ his next words against her mouth.

"I do," he murmured. "It's going to kill me someday, but by the _gods_, do I love you."

Her heart stuttered in her chest. "Show me," she demanded, tangling her hand in his hair. "And I'll show you."

She felt his smile more than saw it. "You weren't joking were you? About the _here_ and the _now_."

"I _never_ joke about sex."

"Yes, you do. All the time," Tamlen argued half-heartedly, his hands tracing distracting patterns across her skin. If the hairs on her arms were standing up, it had nothing to do with the steady chill of the cavern.

"Not when I'm asking for it."

* * *

They were neither of them particularly gentle people and that didn't change when they were together, but something was different in the cave. It was all tenderness and lingering touches, intimacy and whispered promises. Satisfying as their more _spirited_ unions were, Mahariel had enjoyed the change of pace.

Even when they were finished, dressed and armed once more, they stood a little closer together, held hands as they explored. It felt as though something had changed between them. She had no idea what that could be, but it made her heart race. And not in a bad way.

A comfortable silence grew between them as they walked, more cautious after their encounter with the spiders. Something about the ruins wasn't sitting well with either of them. Though they had seen unusually large creatures like that before, they had never seen them so savage; and there was something in the air, something indescribable that had them jumping at shadows.

They were deep in the bowels of the ruins —who knew how far below ground —when Mahariel spotted the first trap, a tripwire. "Watch your step," she murmured, cautiously toeing forward. She'd always had a mind for mechanics.

"Can you disarm it?" Tamlen asked, wisely staying put while she worked.

"Yes. Are there any others?"

"See that? Up ahead." Mahariel fed their torches with magic to give them a little more light. "Under that shit, I think I see another. A claw."

She nodded. "I see it, too. Stay put."

It only took a few minutes to disarm both traps and the two others she'd discovered down the corridor. "I'm starting to get a bad feeling about this," she said, pocketing some of the smaller pieces from the traps. Waste not.

"_Starting_ to?" Tamlen cautiously covering the ground between them. "The monster spiders seemed normal to you?"

Mahariel rolled her eyes. "Let's just find what we're looking for and get out of here."

"Always the impatient one," he teased, twining their fingers together once more. She was surprised to find how much comfort the simple gesture brought. Even if their hands were sweaty and gross.

The further they moved down the corridor, the more concerning it grew. They had seen a few bodies —_animal_ bodies —in the other chambers. This deep in the ruins, the skeletons had a distinctly person-like structure. Mahariel couldn't tell if they were human or elf, but the distinction wasn't important. There was more than one and something had killed them all. Something that, for all they knew, could still be down there.

"Careful," she whispered, as if either of them needed the reminder.

"Wait, do you see that?" Tamlen asked, holding his torch high and picking up the pace. "Lethallan, look!"

She saw it then, the statue with the distinctly elvhen look. It seemed vaguely familiar, but as far as she could discern it was just more old elvhen shit. History had never been her specialty. Tamlen, on the other hand, was delighted. Like a child with his first firefly.

"You know what this is don't you?" He whispered, almost sounding _reverent_.

"Old shit?"

"Yes," he laughed. "Old _elvhen_ shit."

"Obviously."

"It's _Falon'Din_, Lyna. An ancient statue of _Falon'Din_." Tamlen was practically bouncing. "Do you have any idea how valuable this is?"

"Do you think the tablet came from this?"

He shook his head. "I don't see how. What do you suppose a statue like this is doing in these human ruins? Do you think this could date all the way back to Arlathan?"

"I think you're asking the wrong person, lethallin," Mahariel patted him on the shoulder consolingly. He would be wishing right now that Merrill had followed him down here instead; she would have been every bit as exciting by an old piece of misshapen rock as he was.

"Of course. Come on, let's see what else —"

The statue had excited him; Tamlen's dream of bringing glory to the clan was so close he could taste it. It made him reckless. It made him forget his feet.

"Watch out!" Mahariel shouted, a moment too late. The stone beneath him shifted, a pressure plate that triggered some kind of green haze, spurted from the walls. "Blades!" She ordered. In the tight, dark quarters, an arrow was as likely to hit a friend as a foe.

Metal scraping against bone echoed in the corridor and she threw her torch to the ground, unsheathing her twin daggers. Tamlen's sword scratched against its scabbard as he did the same. When the skeletons charged at them from the shadows, they were ready.

The thing about fighting the undead —a phrase Mahariel had never anticipated using —was that they had no brains. They were savage, certainly, but mindless. Like a wounded animal, desperate and backed into a corner. It lashed out carelessly with no thought for openings or flanks. She rammed her offhand dagger between the ribs of the first skeleton, pinning it while she swiped at its neck with the other. The skull popped clean off, rolling back into the shadows. She dismantled the rest of the body just to be certain.

Behind her, Tamlen was engaging two of his own undead, beating them back with his shield until he saw an opening for a swipe. They never noticed her coming.

All in all, a much easier fight than the giant spiders. Gods. Walking corpses and monster spiders.

"I hate caves."

"I'm starting to see why," Tamlen agreed, his breathing a little labored. Mahariel imagined that was more because of the excitement than the actual exertion. Or maybe the haze that still lingered in the air.

"Let's find your fame and fortune and be done with this." She retrieved their torches and checked for more traps. Far as she could tell, it was clean. "Heroes first."

Tamlen moved in front of the door, shield at the ready and feet braced for impact. After what they'd seen in the rest of the ruin, it was best to be prepared for anything. For all they knew, the fabled darkspawn horde was on the other side of that door. Though she didn't think a wooden shield would be enough to save them from _that._

On his signal, Mahariel yanked back the door. It creaked a protest at the violent treatment, but she hardly heard it over the ferocious growl on the other side. It paid to be prepared.

The bear —was it even a bear? she'd never seen such a creature before —charged without hesitation. Tamlen rushed forward to meet it. Natural light filtered into the room through gaping cracks in the ceiling, so Mahariel abandoned the torches in favor of her bow.

Tamlen held his ground until the last possible second, dancing to the side as the beast barreled forward. Mahariel took the shot, her first arrow sinking deep into the creature's neck. Just not deep enough. The beast reared back with an angry roar, a new target in its sights.

Stupidly, it turned its back to one elf so that it might charge the other. Dropping his sword, Tamlen yanked his bow free just in time to bury an arrow in the creature's leg. It fell with another bone-rattling cry. Daggers in hand, Mahariel advanced. Tamlen pinned its other leg. The bear swiped at her with its massive paws, but it was slow in its agony. She danced easily outside its reach, circling around behind it. With two quick thrusts, she sliced open the monster's throat.

"Strike true," she gave it one more clean slice to finish the job. "Do not waver and let not your prey suffer. That is my way."

The twisted beast crumbled at her feet, dead.


	3. Toward the Light

**Chapter Three  
**_Toward the Light_

"By the Creators," Tamlen breathed, collapsing against the dais at the center of the chamber. "I've never seen a bear like that before."

"It's the bear that upset you? _Truly_? We dismantled bloodthirsty, walking corpses to get here, but it's the rabid _bear_ that gave you pause?" Mahariel slumped to the ground beside him. Her bones were beginning to feel suspiciously wobbly. She took it as a sign —yet another —that she'd been underground for far too long.

"I'm adapting," he shrugged. Not that he was fooling anyone.

"Of course you are," she patted his hand fondly and staggered to her feet. As soon as she was out of this accursed cave, Mahariel was going to take a nap. A long one, basking in the afternoon sunlight. And may the Creators help anyone who tried to wake her.

"Don't worry, lethallan," Tamlen teased, "we'll be out of here soon. It's this mirror we're after, I think." He gestured at the structure in the center of the dais. "They wouldn't have built a room around it if it wasn't important."

A fine point. And yet, she wasn't convinced. Something about the mirror made Mahariel's skin scrawl; she'd been feeling it since entering the accursed cave, but it was much stronger in this chamber. Much more _wrong_. "You just want to make faces at yourself in the glass," she teased, trying to ease some of the nerves.

"You would too, if you had a face like this," Tamlen answered without missing a beat.

"You have me there." Half-heartedly, she kicked through some rubble piled against the east wall. It was all bones and shit and crumbled stone, just like the rest of the ruin. Giant roots bulged from the ceiling and sunlight filtered in around them, giving the whole chamber an eerie, ethereal glow. Or perhaps that was just the haze of dirt and dust they'd kicked up, slaying that monstrosity of a bear. More sunlight poured in from a hole in the west end of the chamber, arching upward to what she presumed was another cave mouth. Mahariel wandered in that direction, toeing around all the bear shit. And there was plenty of that. Who knew how long that thing had been living there?

"Lethallin, come look," Tamlen called. He stood at the top of the platform, head quirked to the side and looking at the mirror in —almost in _reverance_. It reminded her of Merrill.

"I see it, Tamlen," she said, moving to stand next to him.

Indulgence was really the only option when he was like this. Not that she minded; staring at the mirror his blue eyes were _blazing_ and she loved it. Loved the way he loved their history, their culture. Mahariel couldn't have cared less, but she didn't need to. She loved how passionate _he_ was about it. She had always loved that about him. He wasn't afraid to care about things. About people. About _her_.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" Tamlen whispered, moving closer to study the engravings around the edges. Mahariel was busy studying _him_. "Look at all this elvish. What do you think it says?"

"'Do not touch the glass?'"

He broke his gaze with the mirror to give her a look, one of those looks that _said_ he wasn't amused but _meant_ 'that is exactly what I love about you.' Or she hoped that's what it meant, anyway; if not, she had been seriously misinterpreting their relationship.

Gods, but she was being silly. If this was what all that gentle lovemaking did to her thoughts, Mahariel wanted no part in it. They were in a cave, possibly still filled with mysterious beasts that wanted to eat them, and all she could do was moon over Tamlen. They weren't children anymore. She should have been past this long ago.

"I can't imagine touching it would do anything," Tamlen finally answered, attention back on the mirror. "Even after all this time, even with that bear in here, it isn't even smudged. You see? Must be some kind of magic." His words devolved quickly into mutterings, half thought out and more for his own benefit than hers. At this point, she might as well have been just another pile of bear shit.

Mahariel moved back around the mirror to inspect the stone boxes on the other side. If people had been buried inside like she suspected, they might have found something of actual value in the ruins after all. And by _actual_ value, she meant something they could trade for steel and grain and the other things their clan needed to survive. History was important, but eating was, too.

"Lyna, look! Something moved! I saw it, just there!" Tamlen shouted, failing to notice that Mahariel had gone. "It's like —It's almost like —There it is again!" She rolled her eyes, leaving the disappointingly worthless sarcophagus to see what he was raving about now. "I think it sees us, Lethallan, I think it —Is that a city?"

She peered around the mirror to find him mere inches from the mirror, hand outstretched and eyes narrowed. "Yes," he said, "I think it's underground. There's some kind of —some darkness and —Creators! It's seen me. Lyna! Shit —" His words devolved into a string of slurred swears. Mahariel bounded around the mirror, reaching for him, trying to protect him from some unknown threat, but it was too late.

Tamlen screamed, heart-wrenching and distant. Then there was nothing but light.


	4. Little Flower

**Chapter Four  
**_Little Flower_

Merrill rearranged the flowers for the ninth time that morning. Behind her, Fenarel heaved another heavy sigh. "_Don't mind him, little flower,_" Lyna cooed in her mind. "_You know how these boys like to brood. Makes them feel like _men." Merrill cast a sideways glance at the woman in the bed, half-expecting her to laugh.

After two days of this, she was beginning to worry. In her head she heard Mahariel's voice, laughing and ordering her not to fuss, teasing her, calling her _mother_ in that way she had… But none of it could make Merrill forget that if her friend didn't wake up soon, she would be lost. Her body needed sustenance; they had done their best with herb waters and teas, but it wouldn't sustain her much longer. Mahariel needed to _eat_.

"Your hair is a _mess_," Merrill chided with false lightness, deciding not to think about things she could not help.

"She can't hear you, Merrill," Fenarel grumbled. Hunched over in his chair, he buried his face in his palms, mumbling something to himself. He was not taking their friends' misfortune well. She had tried so hard to keep his spirits up, to tease like Mahariel and Tamlen would, but Merrill lacked the talent for it. She only ever seemed to make him angrier. Awkwardly, she patted him on the shoulder. It was the best comfort she could offer.

"The Keeper said it might help, talking to her," she explained. "You should try it." An uncomfortable silence filled the aravel. "Or don't. I'm sure Mahariel understands," she hummed brightly, patting Fenarel on the shoulder again. He shrugged her hand away and Merrill tried not to dwell on that. "_He's just sad, little flower_," she could hear Lyna saying. "_Some people don't know how to be sad, so they get angry. He doesn't mean to hurt your feelings, he just doesn't know what else to do._"

Even as an imagined voice, Mahariel sounded so _confident_ that Merrill couldn't help believing her. Lyna had never led her astray with these things before. Fondly, Merrill combed her fingers through the tangles of her friend's dark waves. It was such lovely hair. Mahariel was not a vain woman, but she did so love her hair. Her mother's hair, Ashalle had said. She would be distraught to wake up and find it in such a state.

Using her fingers, Merrill pulled through the knots and when that was done, she set about braiding it. She began with two small braids at each temple, weaving the hair expertly away from Mahariel's face, just as she liked. Fenarel mumbled some hopeless complaint under his breath, but Merrill persisted. She wove the thin braids into a much thicker, more intricate one at the back of Mahariel's head, twisting and knotting until she'd worked through the full length of her friend's hair.

Merrill hummed as she worked, a merry little tune from her old clan. She had been humming the very same song not a week ago, relaxing on the bank of the stream while her clanmates splashed one another. Mahariel had asked for the words and, when Merrill couldn't remember them, had resolved to make up her own. With Tamlen's help, she spun a sordid tale of Tevinter mages and virginal elvhen brides. It was very vulgar—and twice again as funny. The Keeper would have disapproved. Merrill had been too embarrassed to join in, too busy blushing to even keep humming, but she could hear their bawdy voices as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

It felt like a lifetime ago now.

Beside her, Fenarel huffed a little laugh. Merrill turned to find his cheeks painted red as a summer set, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He remembered, too. Tying Mahariel's braid off with a length of twine, she dropped her hand over Fenarel's and—together—they hummed.

Merrill did not know how long they sat like that, hand-in-hand and taking quiet solace in the company of a friend. She did not know how many rounds they hummed of that old, nameless tune. But somehow, she was not altogether surprised to hear Mahariel's voice joining theirs at the end of the last stanza, singing the ribald lyrics that her friends would not.

The two elves abruptly stopped their humming. Mahariel gazed up at them from half-lidded eyes, a bemused grin on her face as if the mere memory of mischief had been enough to finally summon her back from the Beyond.

"Oh!" Merrill gasped. With all the time she had spent praying for her friend to stir, she had not considered what she would do when it finally happened. Did she fetch the Keeper? Ashalle? Surely Mahariel would be hungry! Or perhaps her illness had robbed her of her appetite? Did she need to relieve herself? Oh, she should have had a bucket ready, just in case.

Fenarel found his voice first, reaching his other hand out to grasp Mahariel's. "You're awake," he breathed, almost in disbelief. Of course he would be surprised. He'd spent the last two days _brooding_, lurking there under a grey cloud, muttering doom and gloom.

But Merrill? Merrill _knew_ Lyna Mahariel. And the Lyna Mahariel that _she_ knew would never let death take her so easily, so quietly and with so little fuss. If Mahariel ever let death take her at all—and Merrill was not entirely convinced that she would—it would be loud and bright and noisy, a spectacle to behold and probably for some glorious, noble cause. She would certainly not be gliding from this world to the next in her _sleep_.

* * *

Merrill was watching her, eyes wide and glistening, full of some emotion that Mahariel couldn't explain. Unsure what else to do, she opened her arms to the smaller girl. Merrill clung to her gratefully, babbling something about buckets and glory. There was no making sense of her ramblings until she'd bled out some of her feelings; Mahariel knew that from experience.

"I'm all right," she murmured, stroking the little braids in the other girl's hair while she wept. Fenarel's eyes were spilling over as well, but he would never accept the same kind of comfort. He was a Dalish _hunter_ and Dalish _hunters_ did not cry. Tamlen held to the same ludicrous belief.

Tamlen.

"Where is he?" Mahariel asked, her voice cracking—whether from emotion or disuse she did not know.

Her friends needed no elaboration to know which 'he' she meant. There could be only one. Merrill's voice hitched in a sob and it was all the answer she needed. _Creators help him_. "How long have I been asleep? How did I even get back?" Injured or not, Mahariel knew without question that she would not have left that cave without him. Not after all they'd seen.

"A shemlen," Fenarel said, casting his eyes to the floor. "Said he was a Grey Warden. He came running into camp with you slung over his shoulder two days ago. I saw it myself. Nearly shot him myself, too."

"Two _days_?!" Mahariel was dumbfounded. Tamlen had been missing for two _days_ and the hunters still had not found him? Were they even _looking_?

"The Warden told Marethari he found you outside a cave, but he found you alone. He would not say where the cave was. He believed there might have been darkspawn there."

Typical. Even the Grey Wardens, it seemed, were not immune to the selfishness of the shemlen. "Well, I am awake now and I know precisely where the cave is. Come, there is no time to waste."

"No!" Merrill cried, jerking out of Mahariel's grasp. "You're still _unwell_, lethallin. You cannot go back! Not until you've eaten and rested—"

"I've been asleep for two _days_, little flower. I think I've rested plenty. And I _feel_ _fine_."

"You don't look fine," she insisted, pressing the back of her hand to no less than seven different spots on Mahariel's face. "And you still haven't eaten. What if you find darkspawn and are too weak with hunger to fight?"

"Then I'll eat!"

With a triumphant look, Merrill rose to her feet. "Good. I'll go get you something light. But I swear to the Creators, Mahariel, if I come back and you aren't here I'll—I'll—I don't know what I'll do but I'm sure it will be _very_ nasty!"

Even with the state of things, Mahariel had to repress a smile. "Of course I'll be here, Merrill. I need my strength if I'm going to find Tamlen." She hadn't been wrong about that part. "Now _go_ if you're going! We're wasting daylight."

With one last look of warning, the little elf was out the door, the aravel's curtain flapping in her wake. Once she had gone, Mahariel set about slowly pushing herself upright in the bed. Blessed Fenarel watched her struggle in silence, no pity or admonishments or offers of assistance. He understood; she was a Dalish hunter, too.

"My things?" She asked once her head had stopped swimming.

"Wouldn't be much use to you now. I don't know what you did to them, but your mail's beyond saving. Blades, too, probably. Master Ilen is doing what he can, but with the packing…"

"Packing?"

"Oh, sorry, I forgot you didn't—we're moving camp. Something's riled up the shemlen. The Keeper says we've lingered here too long. As soon as we find Tamlen, she'll want to leave."

Mahariel frowned. "If we aren't quick about it, she might want to leave sooner." Fenarel looked away again, unable to deny the possibility. Probability. The Dalish were a practical people. They valued their clanmates, loved them dearer than themselves even, but they understood the necessity of sacrifice. Sometimes, the needs of the many had to come before the needs of the few. They were survivors. "My bow?"

"Functional. Not _pretty_, but its arrows will fly true enough." Fenarel dragged his eyes to hers for the first time since her waking, searching. She had no idea what he sought, but she held his gaze nonetheless. Eventually, he seemed to be satisfied. "You mean to go alone, don't you?"

Well, _shit_. Mahariel had hoped to slip away quietly, unnoticed, but that now seemed unlikely. "We cannot risk this illness spreading, Fenarel. I am already ill—"

"You said you were fine!" Merrill chose that very moment to sweep back into the aravel, a bowl of steaming broth in one hand and a chunk of dark bread in the other. "You said you felt _fine_, Mahariel. You can't leave if you're still sick!"

"I have to, little flower. Tamlen—"

"The other hunters will find him! It doesn't have to be _you_."

"I know where the cave is, Merrill. It _does_ have to be me."

She slammed Mahariel's broth down, splashing half of it over the sides. "You could describe the path."

"There's no time for guesswork—"

"But that isn't why you want to go yourself, is it?" Merrill crossed her arms over her chest, her narrow hips cocking at that angle that meant fury. It was not a good sign.

"I'm only trying to protect the clan, little flower. If you knew what I saw down there, you would understand," Mahariel used her most soothing voice, but it did not move her friends. Even Fenarel was glaring at her now, eyes hard as stone.

"_Don't_," Merrill warned, "call me your '_little flower_'."


	5. Wasting Daylight

**Chapter Five  
**_Wasting Daylight_

"What in the void is this?"

Mahariel lifted the strips of leather and metal haphazardly tossed on her bed for closer inspection. There wasn't much to inspect.

"It's armor."

She tugged at the laces and peered through the gaps, her face shifting quickly into a frown. "Where's the rest of it?"

In another time, under another set of circumstances, Fenarel would have smirked. If Tamlen had been there, he would've waggled his eyebrows and said something indecent to wipe the smirk of his face. Fenarel had always been easily ruffled.

As things stood, her friend just shrugged. "It's the best I could do on short notice, lethallin. You can't hunt in just a tunic."

"It might offer more protection," she grumbled, even as she pulled the thing off.

The armor left little to the imagination, exposing much of her chest and her midsection. It could not have screamed '_stab here_!' any louder if she had painted red targets on her flesh. Creators help her if they encountered more humans. Or darkspawn. "Where did you even find this?"

"Used to belong to a shem, I think. Master Ilen was planning to strip it for parts."

"That's reassuring." Even at their loosest, the laces at her ribcage held her bosom too tight, pinching her skin and constricting her lungs. Conversely, the armored skirt was too loose, hanging open in gaps between belt loops. The very definition of ill-fitting. And yet, some protection was better than none. So long as it didn't fall off in battle, she would try not to complain. "My bow?"

"Merrill is bringing it."

"You couldn't have grabbed it while you were there?"

"I didn't want to get caught."

Mahariel shouldn't have been surprised. When there was mischief to be done, she and Tamlen had always been the ones to do it. Their friends had a little more respect for the rules and a little less experience in _circumventing_ them.

"Got it!" Merrill swept into the aravel, waving the longbow in triumph, her pale face flush with excitement. Leave it to her to find joy in such a simple task, under such dour circumstances.

"Thank you, lit—_lethallin_."

* * *

Once the quiver was strapped securely to her back—_it_ was not ill-fitting at least—Mahariel pushed aside the curtain obscuring her door. With the light of day beginning to fade, their clanmates were rushing to finish their tasks. The camp was nearly packed. The Keeper would leave on the morrow, Tamlen or no.

"Marethari?" Mahariel asked, glancing around for any sign of the older woman. There was none.

"Fire!" Cries erupted on the east side of camp, halting every Dalish where they stood. Soon, everyone was rushing toward the blaze—Marethari included.

"Taken care of," Merrill boasted, her chin tilted upward.

"Indeed." Mahariel smirked in spite of herself. A fire was probably overkill, but she couldn't deny that it got the job done. And with flair. Tamlen would have been proud. Would _be_ proud, once they found him. "Let's move. We're wasting daylight."

The forest was quiet. Still. No skittering creatures in the bushes or rushes of wind through the leaves. Even the birds had fallen silent, their lilting voices lost to some sinister weight in the air. Mahariel could not describe what it was that she felt or why she felt it, but she could not fault the birds their reticence. Unbidden, her thoughts returned to the Grey Warden.

She wondered at the convenience of his appearance. There had been concerns about darkspawn in the shemlen village on her last visit. A horde of them, rising in the South. Some had whispered '_Blight_'. It was hard to tell truth from fiction with shems, but the rumors no longer seemed so impossible. Mahariel had seen savage, monstrous spiders and twisted, rabid bears. The dead had climbed to their feet and tried to tear the meat from her bones. For all she knew, those creatures had _been_ darkspawn.

And yet.

"Hold on."

"It's so quiet," Merrill whispered.

"_Too_ quiet," Fenarel added ominously.

She could feel their anxious dancing, shifting from foot to foot, and the obsessive way they checked over their shoulders. So familiar were their habits that Mahariel didn't have to see them to know the ways they moved, the shadows in their hearts.

It was a testament to their love for Tamlen that they had not suggested turning back.

Neither Fenarel nor Merrill was a coward, but Mahariel knew of Fenarel's hunger for respect. His desperate need to be useful, to contribute to the well-being of the clan. He had grown up with dreams of valiant Dalish hunters behind his eyes and now heroism was just within his reach.

And Merrill, how she _ached_ for the Keeper's approval. Like a child neglected by her mother, she embraced each and every menial task that woman gave her, starved for the barest hint of pride. How else could she act when she had been traded like a halla horn at market? She had once confessed to feeling more _tool_ than _kin_.

They had both risked a good deal more than their lives to join Mahariel's hunt. Should they all survive this, they were unlikely to let her forget their sacrifice.

"What was—"

The beasts converged on Fenarel before he could finish his question. Bursting without warning from the bush, the barbarous little monsters slipped more than one blade past his guard before any of the elves could react. He screamed, equal parts fury and terror, and beat them back with his shield.

Mahariel finally had a word for the dark weight looming in the wood, for the foreboding twist of her gut and the sharpness of her nerves. _Darkspawn_. With a certainty she could not explain, she knew it to be true. These creatures, these hideous little brutes, were the boogeymen that kept shemlen children awake at night.

She recovered quickly, burying an arrow into the darkspawn still at Fenarel's back. Merrill fell back, ill-equipped to engage the monsters at such close range. Once she was at a safe distance, Fenarel's wounds lit up with the faint glow of her magic.

If the darkspawn noticed, they did not care. Not even the danger of Mahariel's arrows could tear them from their target. Despite the tears in his flesh and the freely flowing blood, Fenarel held fast under their relentless assault. He had no opportunity to strike back, but with the beasts so focused on outmaneuvering his shield, Mahariel had ample opportunity to pick them off from their exposed rear.

There were only three creatures remaining when they finally realized the truth of the threat.

The first fell to Merrill's magic, its head caved in by a flying boulder. The second was skewered on Fenarel's blade the moment it turned its back. The third survived its charge, plowing into melee range faster than a creature with such stubby legs had any right to. Mahariel caught its jagged blade with her bow.

Fast as the darkspawn were, she was faster.

At the monster's back within a breath, Mahariel pulled her bow tight about its neck. Its feet dangled helplessly in the air, gruesome blade forgotten in the grass. Fenarel finished the job, slitting the creature's throat and staining the forest floor with tainted black blood.

They checked the bodies; being no expert on darkspawn, Mahariel felt it prudent to ensure their pray planned to _stay_ dead. When none of the corpses twitched, she declared the battle won.

"Ugh," Merrill's nose curled in disgust. "The stories never mention the smell, do they?"

"The stories never mentioned a lot of things." Fenarel was pale, sagging in his armor as the thrill of battle leaked from his veins. Merrill had done what she could, but healing magic had never been her strength and his wounds were not shallow.

Guiltily, Mahariel considered whether it would not be best to send them back. Now injured, Fenarel might be more of a hindrance to her hunt than an aid. Merrill would have to accompany him; he was in no state to return alone, even at such a short distance. They would protest and insist she come back with them and wait for help, but—

"If you're thinking of sending me back—" Fenarel interrupted her contemplations "—then you can stop, because I won't go. For Mythal's sake, Mahariel, there are _darkspawn_ out here. You can't think we'd leave you to face them alone?"

"Actually, I was thinking I might leave _you_ and face them alone," she admitted.

"You were going to _ditch_ us!" Merrill gasped, voice cracking with near-palpable hurt.

Shit.

"Would I be telling you about it if I actually planned to _do_ it?"

"Maybe," Merrill sniffed, crossing her arms. Fenarel snorted in what she supposed was agreement. "It can be difficult to say with you."

There wasn't time for this; daylight grew scarce. "If I apologize, can we clean Fenarel up and keep moving? We're—"

"Wasting daylight?" Fenarel deadpanned.

Mahariel rolled her eyes.


	6. A Little Longer

**Chapter Six  
**_A Little Longer_

Somehow, the darkspawn smelled even worse underground. Or maybe it was just death that made them so… _ripe_.

"These ruins are—"

"Human. I know," Mahariel interrupted, kicking a darkspawn corpse out of her way.

Merrill caught Fenarel's eye and shrugged. They had been having these silent conversations since leaving camp. Lyna was not herself; every step forward was one step closer to this stranger wearing their friend's face. She was tense, coiled like a spring where she used to be so cavalier, so nonchalant and poised. To Merrill's knowledge, nothing had ever shaken Lyna Mahariel.

She was definitely shaken now.

"There are darkspawn everywhere," Fenarel said, sounding as horrified as Merrill felt.

At least it wasn't just _her_ skin crawling then. The only effect the creatures seemed to have on Mahariel was to make her angry. Whatever was happening with her—well, it had gotten much worse after encountering those darkspawn in the wood.

"At least they're all dead," Merrill offered brightly. "Maybe the Grey Warden is here?"

Mahariel grunted. "Let's just keep moving."

Merrill glanced over at Fenarel, his unusually pale face looking twice as haggard in the flickering light of his torch. His wounds were obviously a strain for him, but he had not once complained, not even with the relentless pace Lyna had set. Merrill wasn't even injured and _she_ was struggling to keep up.

A heavy silence fell over their group as they picked their way through darkspawn corpses and other remains. Mahariel gave a pair of overgrown spider corpses a wide berth. Merrill almost asked, but then she glimpsed her friend's face. _Later_, she decided. _Once we find out for sure what happened to Tamlen_.

"I hope the darkspawn didn't get him," Merrill said. "If he was as sick as you were, I don't think he'd have been able to fight."

"Merrill!" Fenarel gaped at her.

"What? Did I say the wrong thing?"

"Yes!" He glared at her like nothing could be more obvious. "I'm sure Tamlen's fine," he lied unconvincingly, his voice too loud in the silent chamber. Crypt? Was it a crypt if most of the things inside were dead?

Mahariel ignored them both.

Merrill wanted to believe that Tamlen was alive. Part of her _did _believe it. Conviction like Mahariel's was difficult to doubt. Yet the evidence was against her. How could she look at the facts, all of them screaming that Tamlen was lost, and pretend not to see the truth? She was Dalish. Her life had been built around facing difficult truths, facing great sorrows, and enduring. Building something beautiful from their ashes.

That was why she had come. Why she didn't tell the Keeper about Mahariel's waking.

They weren't out here to find their clanmate. Not really. They were here for Mahariel, to _protect_ her. From darkspawn, from herself. Grief was making her reckless. If Merrill didn't know better, she might think Lyna was intentionally throwing herself into danger. She was taking so many risks, risks she didn't usually take. Merrill had hoped that having her friends there…

Fenarel paused, bending over to rest his hands on his knees. Mahariel walked on, either not noticing or not caring for his struggle. She was usually so protective, but this time the well-being of her friends did not seem to matter.

Merrill rushed to his side, covering his wounds with her hands. She poured her magic into them, healing the best she knew how. It wasn't enough.

"I'm fine," he wheezed, feebly waving her away.

"And I'm Asha'bellanar."

"Do you think he's dead?"

Silence. Then, "I do."

"Do you think Mahariel will be okay?"

It was an odd thing. From the moment Merril had joined the clan, Lyna had been her protector. Mahariel was well-loved in their clan and many had expected that she would one day be Keeper like her father before her. Merrill had not been very popular at first. People were bitter and resentful and it made them unkind. It had only been the ferocity of Mahariel's friendship that gave them pause, made them reconsider.

Now, Merrill found herself trying to protect her own protector. She might have been doing a better job of it if she had any idea what she was protecting Mahariel _from_.

"I don't know, lethallan."

"Me either," Fenarel sighed, pulling himself upright with some effort. Merrill looped her arm through his.

"We'll just have to—We'll play along a little longer if it's what she needs. And then—all we can do is be here and hope for the best." Her false cheer wavered, but Fenarel said nothing. He wasn't well enough to take cheap shots at her naivety. "A little longer," she gave him her most reassuring smile. He didn't seem convinced.

* * *

Most of the darkspawn in the cave were dead, but when they came upon a group of live ones, Mahariel was ready. She recognized the feeling, the turn of her stomach and the overwhelming sense of _wrongness_.

"Hold," she threw up a hand to signal the others. "Darkspawn."

Her blood sang, urging her forward. She probably should not have been smiling.

Fenarel took her bow, moving back to stay clear of the fight. His wounds were too severe; he was in no condition for close quarters. Merrill fell back with him, having never been in any sort of condition for close quarters.

Mahariel turned the corner, dancing around the darkspawn's crude traps with ease. The creatures were at the door of the mirror's chamber, grunting and pounding against it. Someone had locked it from the other side. Even as her mind said 'Grey Warden', her heart _screamed_ 'Tamlen!'. She did her best to set that war aside, focusing on the beasts for the moment. Murdering mindless monsters was its own sort of relief.

As expected, the beasts gave chase once they caught wind of her. Several of them fell to their own snares, still buried beneath the refuse where they had left them. Another fell to her blade, waiting on the other side of the trapped corridor. Still another was felled by Fenarel's arrows—it took him two shots and he wasn't supposed to be drawing attention to himself, but he kept the beast off her flank so she didn't complain.

Merrill obligingly stayed out of the fight, her magic still taxed from her attentions to Fenarel, who seemed satisfied with the one kill.

Even on her own, Mahariel made short work of the remaining darkspawn. They were disorganized and largely stupid. The emissary caught her with some kind of spell, but it hadn't been enough to save him. She wore his black blood like a badge of honor.

"Mahariel…" Merrill's voice wavered as she approached, hand outstretched but uncertain. "Are you—"

"The mirror's on the other side of that door," she gestured. "If Tamlen's still here, he'll be in there." The look her friends exchanged was not lost on her.

They believed he was lost. She could understand why; this place was full of darkspawn and death. If she could stop for even a moment to consider...

Mahariel had never been a woman of great faith. She swore by the Creators like everyone else, but she didn't recite the Vir Tanadhal to honor Andruil. She recited it because it was _good advice_. If the gods were real—and she had her doubts—then they were shitty gods. To let their supposed imprisonment keep them from their people? Even after all these years had they found no escape? Not the kind of gods she wanted.

Maybe she was taking the legends too literally, but that was exactly the point. She understood the things she could see, the things she could touch and hear and taste and smell. If she couldn't experience it, Mahariel could not make herself believe it.

This was different. She _believed_ even while she knew she shouldn't.

Maybe it _was_ just self-delusion. The thought had crossed her mind; taken root and stayed too, burrowing deeper every time she turned a corner and Tamlen wasn't on the other side. But if it was just self-delusion, then self-delusion was the only thing holding her together right now.

She wasn't a woman of faith. If she took a moment to consider the facts, if she slowed down for even a breath to let herself think, then her faith—her _hope_—would be shattered. Tamlen would be dead and there would be no place left to hide from it. Mahariel wasn't ready for that. She needed the delusion, just for a little longer.

Just for a little longer.


	7. Sorrow

**Chapter Seven  
**_Sorrow_

It was the Grey Warden behind the locked door.

Mahariel had very little to say to him. She had very little to say to anyone.

Tamlen was gone. The odds had been against him all along, but seeing the empty chamber, combing it for any trace of him; any illusions she had about his survival were shattered. With the exception of the darkspawn corpses—the bear's body was conspicuously absent—the room looked exactly as she remembered it. Excepting maybe a few more footprints in the dust and the pools of blood.

But the blood was all black. If any of it belonged to Tamlen, then he probably wasn't really Tamlen anymore. She didn't much care to think about that.

Merrill carried the conversation with the Warden while Mahariel looked around. She was careful not to touch the mirror, not to get too close, but something about it kept drawing her gaze. Tamlen's screams echoed in her ears, fresh as if he was standing next to her. Pleading for help while she blindly groped the air, impotent before the old magic consuming them both. And then nothing.

How had she gotten out of the cave?

How had she gotten out _alone_?

Before she quite knew what she was doing she had climbed the steps of the dais. Inches from the mirror, she felt the familiar pull. It was watching her, calling to her. Part of her wanted to touch the mirror, to trace the smooth glass with her fingertips. She wanted to let it take her to Tamlen.

Distantly, she heard the sound of her name. Merrill. Fenarel. The Warden. She knew from experience what would happen to them if she surrendered to her urge. They would fall sick as she had, filled with questions and worry and an illness Marethari might not be able to combat twice. Mahariel took a step back.

The mirror shattered, fragments of glass clattering against the stone at her feet. A blinding white light flooded the room, so vibrant she could feel the thrum of it in her _veins_.

"Mahariel…" Merrill gasped once the light had faded. "What have you done?"

"The only thing that _can_ be done, I'm afraid," Duncan answered. He joined her on the dais, yanking her dagger from the mirror's remains.

"Tamlen is gone, isn't he?" Mahariel whispered. She knew the answer, but she needed to hear it. Needed to hear it from _Duncan_.

"I have seen artifacts like this before. Tevinter in origin," he explained. "Intended for communication, I believe, but when _broken_… they become Tainted."

"Tainted?" Merrill asked, stepping forward, but keeping her distance from the mirror. What was left of it, anyway. "You mean like the darkspawn?"

Duncan nodded gravely.

He didn't need to explain the rest. Like the shemlen and the durgen'len and the flat ears and everyone else in Thedas, the Dalish told the tales of the Grey Wardens to their children, frightened them into obedience with threats of darkspawn and taints. She knew death would be a kinder fate than living with the Taint. Or dying at the hands of the darkspawn.

"Oh, Tamlen…" Merrill's voice quavered.

"I am very sorry."

"We should at least try to find the body," Fenarel suggested, his voice strained. Mahariel knew tears when she heard them, but he would not cry in front of a shem, Grey Warden or no. What Dalish would?

"The darkspawn would have taken it."

"What? Why would they—" He hesitated. Sighed. Fenarel had heard the stories, too. "Nevermind. I don't think I want to know."

"I am very sorry," Duncan repeated, like a man too used to delivering bad news. Mahariel supposed bearing bad news was half the job for a Grey Warden. She thought she would grow weary of it, too. Eventually tun out of ways to assure people of her sincerity, run out of platitudes and comforting anecdotes. Eventually, all that's left is sorrow.

The Dalish knew a little of that, themselves.

A heavy silence hung in the air, thick with tension and the pulsing darkness of the tainted cave. Though the mirror was gone, its echoes still rang against the stone walls. She imagined the memory would linger here for some time, like echoes always did in Hahren Paivel's stories. There was a word for a place like that. Tamlen would know it.

"Come," Duncan said at last. "Let us leave this place. I must speak to your Keeper about your cure."

"Cure?" Merrill's curiosity was piqued. "But the Keeper already cured her."

"She has only delayed the inevitable. The Taint is still within her," the Warden turned his gaze on Mahariel. Slowly, she met his eyes. "You feel it, don't you?"

Fighting the instinct to shrink away under the scrutiny, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Defiance she knew. Defiance was an old friend. A comfort in a time like this.

"You do look pale, lethallin…" Fenarel said.

"She's just tired," Merrill dismissed it. "And probably hungry. She's barely eaten anything for days!"

"No, little flower," Mahariel disagreed quietly, reaching her hand out for Merrill's. "Duncan is right. I am sick still. Tainted."

Even the presence of a shem could not keep the water from her friend's eyes. Duncan, as uncomfortable at the prospect of her tears as any of them, was quick to intervene. "She is not beyond saving, child. There is one thing that may be done, but I must speak with your Keeper."

Merrill cast a wistful, watery glance around the room. Cataloguing every detail, no doubt. Mahariel almost smiled. At any other time, Merrill would have protested, stamped her foot and refused to go until she'd inspected every last spider's web and pile of shit in the place. But she had lost one friend to this cave already. It seemed she would not risk losing another.

"Then let's not waste anymore time," she decided. Mahariel did not release her hand until they were safely back at camp.

* * *

The Keeper waited at her aravel, leaning on her staff too much to pass for casual. Her wrinkled lips were pressed into a thin line and her green eyes hard. It was a face she had seen many times, both anger and resignation. Marethari was too tired to be properly furious.

Mahariel should have felt worse about that. It was _her_ fault.

"I suppose I should not be surprised," the Keeper dipped her head respectfully at the Grey Warden. "Andaran atish'an, Duncan."

The Warden crossed his arms over his chest and tilted briskly at the waist. "Keeper Marethari. I did not expect to return so soon."

The Keeper's eyes fell on the three young elves; only Mahariel met her gaze. It wasn't out of defiance, either, nor aimless rebellion or pride or any of the things that usually emboldened her. It wasn't even boldness. It was apathy. What punishment could Marethari contrive that would be harsher than the fruits of her crimes?

Tamlen was gone.

Mahariel had _fucked up_ and now Tamlen was gone.

There was no punishment more severe than that.

Whatever it was that Marethari wished to say, she would not say it in front of Duncan. Grey Warden or not, he was an outsider. The clan would show no hints of discord with him in their midst. The Dalish were a proud people.

"Did you see the cave, Merrill?" The Keeper did not bother addressing the matter of Tamlen. If they had found any sign of him, they would not have returned, not until they had found _him_.

"Yes, Keeper," Merrill mumbled, staring at her toes and blushing furiously. Was she embarrassed to have been caught doing wrong or embarrassed to have returned without any new knowledge for the clan? "There was a mirror."

Marethari's eyes narrowed, sharp and quick like a predator's. "A mirror? And it was the cause of all this?" Merrill's head bobbed. "And did you bring any of it back with you?"

"I believe I can answer that, Keeper," Duncan interjected. "I destroyed it."

Merrill and Fenarel chanced a glance away from the ground, shooting Mahariel questioning looks. _Do we go along with this_? they asked. She shrugged. If the Warden wished to take credit for the mirror's destruction, then so be it.

"Not without good reason, I am sure." The Keeper had a talent for making accusations without actually accusing anyone of anything. '_Merrill is too clever to have gone along with this, I am sure,_' or '_Fenarel is too devoted to his clan to have been party to these antics, of course_'.

"Had I not destroyed it, it would have tainted this entire area. When I arrived, it had already drawn a number of darkspawn and corrupted the cave which housed it."

Marethari glanced to them for confirmation and Merrill gave it. "Then you were right to destroy it, I suppose. Was everything from this cave tainted then? I had hoped to learn more about this illness," she gestured to Mahariel.

"I believe I have the answers you seek," Duncan said. "May we speak privately?"

The Keeper glanced at Mahariel, communicating with one stony look that they would be discussing her failures later. At length. "See to Fenarel's injuries, Merrill. I will find you later. Mahariel—" Marethari sighed deeply, her eyes falling shut and lingering there "—speak to Hahren Paivel. About Tamlen."

"Of course, Keeper," Merrill answered immediately, drawing Fenarel's arm around her narrow shoulders in spite of his forceful protests.

Mahariel turned away without a word. She would seek out Hahren Paivel later. There was someone she had to see first.


	8. Tainted

**Chapter Eight  
**_Tainted_

Ashalle held her while she wept.

They had not spoken a word when they met. What was there to say? Mahariel had survived, but Tamlen had not. She had cost him his life and she would have to live with that. Talking about it would not change it or make it any easier. Ashalle understood that.

Ashalle understood _her_.

"Da'len," she murmured into Mahariel's hair once her sobs subsided. "I love you. Do you know that?"

What comfort a simple truth could bring. Mahariel nodded, rasping out an unintelligible, "I love you, too."

"Your parents would be so proud of you."

That was unlikely. Though she knew little of her mother, Mahariel's father had once been the clan's Keeper. She had been intended for the role, but her magic had never quite developed. What Keeper could be proud of a failed First?

She _was_ an excellent shot—best in the clan honestly—but a hunter was much more than a fine bow and a sharp eye. A hunter needed discipline and, as Marethari liked to remind her, she was sorely lacking in that. Defiant and stubborn and completely lacking respect for, well, just about everything. For every creature she speared through the eye there was a brawl and for every successful trade with the shemlen there was pile of flaming halla shit outside Alaren's aravel. Never mind that she was always dragging others down with her. Tamlen was one thing—he was likely to cause mischief with or without her influence—but Merrill? Fenarel? Even _Maren_?

Mahariel was a poison that tainted everything she touched.

She could see her parents, heads bent together as they whispered to her mother's swollen belly. Her mother with her bronze skin and black hair like Mahariel. Her father would have the Sabrae coloring, all fair hair and golden glow with eyes as green as the forest. She had gotten her eyes from him, she thought.

Had they imagined the woman their baby would become? Had they pictured her as a Keeper, tough but firm and dedicated to the clan? Or maybe a hunter, confident and capable, but with an easy smile and a passion for music? Maybe they had imagined she would mother a small army of little Dalish babes. Maybe they had stayed up too late by the fire, imagining her bonding with the children of their friends. Maybe they had chosen Tamlen for her before she even knew to choose him for herself.

It was a good thing they were dead. They would not be proud of the woman their daughter had become.

"I'm sick, Ashalle," Mahariel blurted. She did not wish to discuss her parents.

"I know, da'len."

"You don't understand—" the tears threatened to return "—it's not just an illness."

"The Keeper told me she did not think you were well enough to be up and about yet."

"It's the taint, Ashalle. I have the darkspawn taint."

* * *

After exhausting their tears for a second time, Mahariel returned to the Keeper's aravel with Ashalle in tow. She had wanted to hear of the Warden's '_cure_' for herself. Marethari was not happy about her presence, but Ashalle was in no mood to be persuaded, not even by the Keeper. Duncan had little patience for their standoff and less concern for Mahariel's privacy.

"My order is in need of help, Mahariel, and you are in need of a cure," he began, effectively ending the argument between the two older women. "Your Keeper tells me you are skilled and I have seen some of your talent for myself. I believe we can help each other."

Predictable. Shemlen never offered anything without the expectation of something in return. Greedy little beasts.

"Can you not just cure her?" Ashalle asked with a hard edge to her voice that Mahariel had never heard. "Her _life_ is at stake and you want to haggle? What is it you want? Ironbark? Weapons? Halla?"

She was _angry_. She was downright _furious_. Gentle, serene Ashalle was _red-in-the-face livid_. Something in Mahariel's heart swelled. Twenty years of her antics and it was this—_this_—that had finally broken that sweet temper.

"If only it were so simple," Duncan said.

"He has asked permission to recruit her, Ashalle," the Keeper explained. "And I have given it."

"What? That permission isn't yours to _give_ Marethari. _I_ took her in! _I_ made a promise to her mother. _I_ swore to protect and love this child like she was my own. She belongs _here_ with _me_. With her _clan_."

"I understand that, but this is the only option." Seeming to remember that the subject of the conversation was actually present, Duncan turned to Mahariel. "The Grey Wardens guard their secrets carefully, Mahariel. I can only cure you if you join us."

"There _must_ be some other way," Ashalle pleaded. "You've already done so much, Marethari, surely..."

The Keeper looked away. "I can delay the inevitable, but not for much longer. She needs a cure. And I don't have it."

One way or the other, Marethari would be rid of the taint upon their clan. She ought to have been rejoicing, or at least fighting a grin. She shouldn't have sounded so… sad.

Mahariel sighed. Stay or go made little difference; both were a death sentence. She remembered Hahren Paivel's stories, about the Grey Wardens and the darkspawn and the taint and the Blights. "_In death, sacrifice_," he'd said. The Wardens made for excellent tragic heroes.

"I can't promise that I will be of any use," she said at last. "But I will go with you if you like."

"Da'len, you can't be serious," Ashalle gasped.

Mahariel shrugged. "I'll die if I stay, Ashalle." It was best not to mention that she expected to die regardless. "I don't see any other options. And anyway—" she smiled "—Tamlen would love this. He used to go on and on about the Grey Wardens. He always had to be the Warden when we would play act the Blights."

Duncan looked like he might say something, offer some warning about the severity of the commitment. As though she wasn't aware.

"I've made my decision. If you'll have me, Duncan, I would be honored to become a Grey Warden."

He crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. "We will need to set out as soon as possible. The horde is gathering to the south, at Ostagar. I mean to beat them there."

Mahariel nodded. "Of course. Do we have time for—" she struggled with the words, suddenly grateful to be out of tears "—My clanmate, Tamlen. His funeral. I would like to stay."

"I would not deny you that."

"Ma serannas."

"Come, Duncan," the Keeper gestured toward Master Ilen's aravel. "You mentioned supplies. Our craftsmaster can arrange something, I believe."

Once the Warden had gone, parting from them with a respectful nod, the Keeper turned on Mahariel. She steeled herself, knowing which lectures were coming. The '_you have disappointed your clan_' would be first, full of reminders that the Dalish were not so great in number that they could afford to throw away the lives of their children. And Mahariel had cost their clan _two_ lives: Tamlen's and now her own. Marethari would follow up with a warning look and the classic '_do not bring shame upon The People_'. The same speech she got every time she went to trade with the shemlen. It was strangely sad to think this would be the last time she heard it.

"Oh, da'len," the Keeper whispered, surprising Mahariel by pulling her into a hug. "Emma ir abelas."

There was nothing to say to that so she held tight to Marethari, listening as the older woman murmured broken elvish into her hair. Even if Mahariel could not completely understand it, the old tongue of her people was somehow very soothing.

They stayed like that for some time, with Ashalle rubbing circles into Mahariel's back. If her kinsman thought anything was odd about the display, they said nothing. Word of Tamlen's fate had no doubt reached every corner of the clan by then; there were few secrets among the Dalish.

"Did you speak to Hahren Paivel?" The Keeper finally pulled away. Mahariel shook her head. "Then go. See to Tamlen's funeral. I will speak with his father."

Once Marethari was gone, Ashalle wrapped an arm around Mahariel's shoulder, tucking her into her side. "I cannot believe you're leaving me. Leaving the clan." She wasn't reproving or upset. Just sad.

"I'll be okay, Ashalle," Mahariel lied.

"No you won't, da'len. I have seen the look in your face before. It was the same look your mother wore the day she left."

"The day she left?"

Ashalle nodded. "You ought to know. I was waiting for a better time, but—a better time isn't coming is it?" She laughed a short, humorless laugh. "That ought to be our mantra. '_A better time isn't coming._' That's what it _really_ means to be Dalish."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your parents, da'len. It was not a sickness that killed them."

That much Mahariel had figured out for herself. After all, there were few secrets among the Dalish. "Then what happened?"

"Your mother was from another clan, a hunter like you. But when she fell in love with your father—her Keeper did not approve. They had to meet in the forest at night, in secret. One night they were ambushed by bandits. Your father was killed."

"By shemlen?" Mahariel couldn't say she was surprised.

"And flat ears. Your mother was badly injured, but she held on. Just long enough to bring _you_ into the world, da'len."

"And then?"

Ashalle held her a little tighter, her eyes distant and unfocused, lost in a memory. "Not a week after you were born, she looked at me with this… This _empty_ look. The same look I see now on you. She looked at me and said she was going for a walk, but she never returned. The death of your father was too much for her to bear, I think."

"So she just left?" Mahariel realized her mistake the moment the words left her mouth. Her mother had left, abandoning the clan her sorrow. Like mother, like daughter.

"She loved you, da'len, but I think she was afraid. Afraid she couldn't love you like you needed with her broken heart. I think she felt guilty." Ashalle looked at her, something heavy and significant in her gaze. Mahariel had to look away. She didn't want to think about this right now. Her guardian had been right; it _was_ a bad time to discuss this. "She left her belongings behind. We could not afford to carry all of them, but I kept a few little things. A necklace your father made for you. A knife that belonged to your mother. I suppose it's time you had them."

"They didn't leave behind any armor did they? Because mine…" Mahariel gestured at her bare stomach, exposed by the frivolous 'armor' Fenarel had scrounged up. She tried to laugh, to lighten the mood, but the sound was dry and empty even to her own ears.

Ashalle smiled sadly. "I'm afraid not. Perhaps Master Ilen has finished repairing yours?" She stroked Lyna's hair one last time before releasing her. "I will go speak with him about it. You—you should talk to Hahren Paivel."

Then she was gone and Mahariel was alone.


	9. Farewells

**Chapter Nine  
**_Farewells_

Not even a week ago, Mahariel had sat before the fire with Tamlen, listening to Hahren Paivel preach about the fall of the Dales _again_.

"_Maybe it's the old age," Tamlen whispered, his breath hot on her ear. Mahariel tried to ignore the way her skin came alive with him so close._

"_Maybe it's all the datisha root," she suggested, giggling like a little child._

"_It seems we have guests," Paivel gave the pair of them disapproving looks. "Come, if you must be here, then you'll help me with the tale. I trust you remember it?"_

"_How could we forget?" Tamlen looked to her, his brow arched and a mischievous smile lighting up his face. She loved that smile._

_Paivel grumbled, waving his hand at them impatiently. "Get on with it then," he said._

_Mahariel turned to the children, leaning forward to give them a long, hard look. Nothing like a good dramatic pause to let you know that something really important was about to happen. She lowered her voice and frowned, "It begins like this: when a mommy and a daddy love each other _very_ much_—"

"_For the love of the Creators!" Paivel's face was priceless. _

And now Tamlen was dead and it was Merrill by the fire, humming a sad tune and looking in every direction but Lyna's.

Tamlen was dead. Gone. Maybe if she repeated it enough, it would start to feel real. Maybe she could stop expecting to hear his laugh, stop expecting him to jump out of the bushes, stop expecting this whole thing to be one of his stupid, elaborate ruses. He always did take those one step too far.

_If the gods are real_, Mahariel prayed, _if you can hear me, then let this be a trick. Let this be another stupid trick. I'll pray every day for the rest of my life. I'll sing your songs and draw the vallaslin across my whole body. I'll do anything. Just let him be alive._

_Let him be alive_.

"Lethallin?"

Mahariel nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Lethallin, are you okay?" Merrill tilted her head against Lyna's shoulder, twining her arm around her friend's. "You looked…distant."

The Creators were a lie. A story the Dalish told themselves so they could sleep at night. "I'm fine, little flower. Don't worry about me."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Tamlen." Mahariel sighed, dropping her head to rest atop Merrill's. "I was praying, actually. Trying to make a deal with the Creators."

"The Creators don't make deals anymore, lethallin. Not after the Dread Wolf." She said it so softly, like she was explaining something very obvious to a child. It was almost funny. Almost.

"Makes sense," Mahariel agreed, combing her fingers through the shaggy curtain of Merrill's hair. They had fancied themselves long-lost sisters as children; the both of them with their dark hair so different from the rest of the clan. They had made up all sorts of salacious tales about their imagined mother, a dark-haired beauty from Merrill's old clan with such irresistible charm and wit that she kept lovers all across Thedas. They had imagined all manner of siblings, had fancied they would all fall in together some day and join forces to take back their homeland.

It was embarrassing remembering how foolish she'd been, but there was some truth hidden in all their fictions: Merrill _was_ her sister. Family was what you made it, not what you were handed at birth. No one knew that better than the Dalish. And Merrill was _her_ family. Merrill and Ashalle and Fenarel and Tamlen.

Mahariel sighed, pressing a kiss into Merrill's hair. "Emma ir abelas, little flower. Emma ir abelas."

"I'm going to miss you."

"And I you, Merrill. If I could take all this back—I was stupid. I was stupid and look what's happened."

Haaren Paivel emerged from his tent, interrupting whatever reply had been on Merrill's tongue. "Hahren," she said, nodding respectfully at the older man. Would she be better off without Mahariel around to get her into trouble? Without Mahariel's shadow hanging over her like a raincloud? Probably.

"Aneth ara, da'len," Paivel's voice was heavy. As he drew nearer the light of the fire, the red rims of his eyes became clear. He had been crying.

In the back of her mind, Mahariel could hear Tamlen's voice. _This from the man who said tears were a sign of weakness when I was getting my vallaslin, _he scoffed. She could see his face, contorted into a ridiculously exaggerated impression of Paivel's glare. '_The Dalish are a strong, proud people, Tamlen. The Dalish do not cry_.'

It would have been funnier coming from him. She'd never had his knack for impersonations.

"What happened in that cave, Mahariel?" Paivel asked after a long silence. He had settled into the grass on Merrill's other side. "Is Tamlen truly lost to us?"

"Tamlen is dead." She should have felt something. Those words, they should have hurt shouldn't they? Maybe she just needed to keep saying it. "Tamlen is dead and the Warden said we wouldn't find his body."

"Creators," Paivel's breath hitched in his throat. For one horrific moment, she thought he might start crying again. "I—Did you—What _happened_?"

"We found a mirror."

"A mirror? A _mirror_?"

"The Grey Warden said it was Tevinter," Merrill said. "He said it was broken. That when Tamlen touched it, it released the Taint."

"Tamlen _touched_ it?" He stared at Mahariel, mouth hanging open in abject horror. "You _let_ him? You of _all people_—"

"It isn't her fault!" Merrill rushed to her defense, voice trilling in that endearing way it had when she was upset.

Paivel looked away, shaking his head at the ground. A lot of her clanmates had been doing that recently. Mahariel supposed she would've done the same in their shoes. She _was_ doing the same, regardless of footwear.

"Da'len, you must understand, the Dalish—"

He wasn't wrong. She knew what he was going to say—about how the Dalish belonged to the clan, not themselves—she had heard the entire speech dozens of times before. She knew exactly what Hahren Paivel was about to tell her and he wasn't wrong, but she couldn't bear to hear it. Not now. Not yet. Not with Tamlen's name still hammering in her mind, beating a tattoo across every inch of her skull. Not with his screams still ringing in her ears.

"The Keeper," Mahariel interrupted, jumping to her feet. "She asked for you to prepare a funeral."

It was time to go.

* * *

"Your friend's funeral is about to begin."

"Tamlen," Mahariel snapped. "His name is Tamlen."

"Would Tamlen approve of you hiding in a tree while your clan mourned him?"

_No_. Of course he wouldn't. He would expect her to be in the middle of it, sobbing uncontrollably and exaggerating his final moments. He would expect her to tell everyone that he'd killed a dragon to get at that mirror, to recover just a little of what the Dalish had lost. He would want her to tell everyone that he was a hero.

But what right did he have to expect anything of her? He was _gone_. He had left her for a stupid mirror. If he had just _waited_, then maybe…

"How did you even find me?"

The Grey Warden shook his head, leaning against the tree. "Grey Warden secrets. You'll understand soon."

Tamlen should have been here. It should have been him. He would have been a better Grey Warden. He would have been _excited_ to go, to see the world outside the clan and make a name for himself, for the Dalish. He would have done the clan proud.

All Mahariel could think about was how she was betraying her family a second time in as many days. She was abandoning them, just like she'd abandoned Tamlen. Would Fenarel look out for Merrill when she was gone? Would he keep her heart from growing hard? Would Merrill look out for him, stop him from being so serious all the time?

"Mahariel," Duncan spoke softly, "you will never return here. You will never see your people again. If you hide from them now, you _will_ live to regret it."

Would she?

It was probably a bad sign that a Grey Warden was more optimistic about her life expectancy than she was.

"Fine," she conceded, dropping from the tree. "Let's get this over with." Duncan looked like he might say something, but only dropped a hand to her shoulder.

They walked back to camp in a strangely companionable silence. Hahren Paivel was already speaking, about the loss and the sorrow the Dalish must greet as an old friend.

Her clanmates surrounded her, like they might physically shield her from grief. Ashalle on one arm and Merrill on the other, Fenarel's hand on her shoulder and Maren wrapped around her waist. When they couldn't get near enough to touch her, they grasped hands with those who could.

A similar crowd had formed around Tamlen's father, who stood tall and shed not a tear. Mahariel had always thought his stoicism was a display of strength, but maybe that wasn't true. Maybe he was just numb.

The fire sparked as Hahren Paivel fed it the ceremonial herbs, one at a time, all of them representing one of the Creators. Murmurs of "Falon'Din guide him" spread throughout the clan as Paivel recited the dirge.

Mahariel tried to cry. She remembered the funeral for Tamlen's mother, how they had clung together and sobbed like babies while his father stared into the fire, unmoved by Paivel's words. Tamlen had been so furious with him, so angry that he hadn't seemed to care.

The truth was that his father had cared _too_ much. She saw that now. Sometimes, when you have too many feelings and none of them are making sense, the only thing you can do is turn them off. Push them to the back of your mind and stop caring. Emptiness was the only way to keep from drowning.

Carefully, Paivel unveiled the tree that was to be planted in Tamlen's honor. An alder. She almost smiled when she saw it. Almost.

Hahren Paivel led the clan in a mournful song, the song of uthenera, as he planted the _adahl_. The sobbing began in earnest then, sniffles and gasps punctuating by chanting. It was too much.

Mahariel extricated herself from her clanmates, some of them more reluctant to release her than others. The Keeper, who stood alongside Tamlen's father, saw what she was doing and took Paivel's place before the fire. Duncan emerged from the shadows to stand at her shoulder. Together, they announced her recruitment to the Wardens, as if the entire clan hadn't already known.

She heard very little of the Keeper's short speech, something about '_duty_' and '_sacrifice_' and '_honor_'. Just like every other speech she'd ever given. She didn't hear much of what her kinsman said either, as they grasped her arms and clapped her shoulders and pressed kisses to her hair. It felt like a dream, a very bad dream that wouldn't let her escape.

Maybe it was a dream. Maybe Duncan was a demon in disguise.

"Fly straight and never waver," Merrill's voice caught her attention and she realized she had made it to the end of the line. Nothing but her friends stood between her and the Warden, her dark and uncertain future. Merrill pressed something into her hand.

"Bend but never break," Fenarel continued the mantra, pulling Mahariel into a fierce hug that she dazedly returned.

"Together we are stronger than one," Ashalle and Maren were there, too, smiling sadly but holding their heads high.

"We are the last of the elvhenan," the clan chanted together. "And never again shall we submit!"

The chants continued long after Mahariel was gone.


	10. Keepsake

**Chapter Ten  
**_Keepsake_

The clan stayed one more night in the Brecilian Forest. One last night for sorrow, to remember what the woods had given them and to say goodbye. Merrill sat by Tamlen's tree, feeding it nourishment with her magic.

She still couldn't believe he was gone. Couldn't believe Lyna was gone. They really _had_ done everything together, right down to abandoning the clan.

That was unfair. If they'd had a choice, Merrill knew neither of them would have left the clan. Left her.

"Lethallin?" Fenarel approached cautiously.

"What?" Merrill snapped. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I don't know what—" she smiled sadly "—I'm probably not very good company right now, lethallan."

"I'm never very good company," he laughed hollowly. Nothing felt very funny right now. Nothing would ever be as funny as it used to be, not without Lyna and Tamlen. "I—uh—I brought you something." He passed her something wrapped in canvas, a note pinned to the front.

_You always did love this scarf_, it was Mahariel's lazy scrawl. _Keep our people safe, little flower. Love, Lyna._

It was her armor. Mahariel's armor. Master Ilen had repaired it, but she had left it behind anyway. For Merrill.

She choked on her sobs, burying her face in the feathers and fabric. Beneath the oil and soot, it still held the distinct scent of _Lyna_, of earth and spice and the spring rain. Part of Merrill wanted to put it on and never take it off; another part wanted to put it in a chest and save it, to protect the only piece of her friend, her _sister_, that she still had.

"Thank you, Fenarel. I—I don't know what to say," Merrill stuttered awkwardly.

Fenarel wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his own breathing labored and uneven. "Neither do I, Merrill. Neither do I."

* * *

Exhausted as she was, Mahariel slept fitfully and not for very long.

Every time she closed her eyes, her mind filled with a flood of horrific images. Some of them memories, some of them _not_. Duncan said it had to do with the Taint, but he couldn't explain it fully until she'd done the Joining which, in spite of the name, was _not_ actually a sadistic shemlen sex thing. She had asked.

Tamlen would have been disappointed of course; he'd always loved making up stories about sadistic shemlen sex rituals. Or, more probably, he had always loved watching Fenarel's scandalized expressions as he told stories about sadistic shemlen sex rituals in gratuitous detail. If someone had ever actually threatened him with a weird sex rite, he might have run the other way, screaming.

Unless, of course, it had been _her_ doing the threatening.

"I have a question."

"Mmm?" Duncan was a gifted conversationalist.

"Griffons?" Tamlen had this theory that they weren't all dead, that the Wardens were actually just hoarding them away at their secret fortress. It was what he would've asked, what he would want _her_ to ask.

And she could practically _hear_ Duncan rolling his eyes. "Dead."

"_All_ of them?"

"Yes," he grumbled. "All of them."

"You're sure?"

"Reasonably so, yes."

"But not completely?"

"I imagine only the Maker can know if they are completely extinct, Mahariel."

She scoffed. "Your Maker wouldn't know his head from his own hairy arse."

"Charming."

"How much longer to Ostagar?"

"Half an hour less than the last time you asked."

The Grey Warden, she had found, was absurdly easy to exasperate. Arguing minute details and repeatedly asking him the same questions had served as something of a balm to her quickly fraying mind.

It was just so _normal_. If she didn't look him in the face, she could almost pretend Duncan was just another clanmate, wondering what they did to deserve this punishment. Mahariel didn't have to remember that everything she loved was miles north of her, or that the distance was growing with every second. She didn't have to feel her loss so acutely.

There was something to be said for not surrounding yourself with memory.

Unconsciously her hand went to her throat, to the necklace her father had made. For her. Her mother's hunting knife sheathed at the small of her back felt heavier than it had any right to.

It had been a mistake to carry these things with her. A foolish sentiment. Why had Ashalle kept them all these years? Why should she want keepsakes from parents she had never known? A mother who had _chosen_ to _abandon_ her? Who hadn't loved her enough to stay?

_The apple doesn't fall far from the tree does it?_

Her parents were fools. Stupid, thoughtless fools who should have known better. And shouldn't she have known better than to run headlong into a mysterious, foreboding cave? Shouldn't she have turned back when they found it full of monsters and bones?

Shouldn't she have stayed with her clan? Between Merrill and Marethari, maybe they could have used the mirror's fragments, held off her sickness. The Keeper had bought her time with magic once; who knew how much longer she could have had? The clan deserved better. Merrill shouldn't have had to lose two friends at once.

Mahariel had run away, same as her mother. She hadn't left out of duty or honor or even to save her own life. She had left because she wasn't strong enough to stay. Everything was so full of memory, full of pasts and presents and futures that could never be. How was she supposed to look Tamlen's father in the eye? How could she look _anyone_ in the eye after what she had done?

At Ostagar, she would be nobody. If she knew anything about shemlen, they would look straight past her, as if she were a tree or an errant rock. A lowly elf beneath even the most inferior human's notice.

"We'll see about armor when we arrive," Duncan cast a sidelong look at Mahariel's secondhand leathers. She had almost forgotten about them.

"Oh. Right."

"Unless you would prefer—"

"No, this armor is useless. It isn't even mine." She tugged at the gaps in the skirt to illustrate her point.

"Yes, I remember yours was badly damaged."

"Master Ilen said it was beyond repair," Mahariel lied effortlessly. Merrill must have found her gift by now; hopefully it had pleased her. She had helped _make_ it after all—Mahariel would never have put feathers on her armor of her own volition.

After everything, it just hadn't felt right to keep wearing it. The woman that armor belonged to had died with Tamlen. But Merrill—she was always seeing things in the brightest light. If anyone could make use of that armor, it was her.

"Your Keeper mentioned you have some skill with magic."

She laughed mirthlessly. "Not enough to call it _skill_."

"What do you mean?"

"I can conjure a little fire from time to time, but I am _very_ bad at it," Mahariel warned, flashing back to her fever in the cave. She shook her head. "It usually breaks more than it fixes. Ask my eyebrows, they'll tell you."

Duncan chuckled. "Interesting."

"Merrill used to tell me about how she didn't dream, how when she slept she had visions of the Beyond. I still dream. I have so little magic that demons don't even notice it," she paused to give the Warden a serious look. "Whatever notions you might have about using my magic, you'd do well to disabuse yourself of them now. It's next to useless."

"Can you manage a campfire?"

"How much do you value your eyebrows?"

"Not as much as I value a fire on a cold night."

"Then I _might_ be able to help you," Mahariel snorted.

"Grey Wardens waste nothing, not even talent."

"Talent isn't exactly the right word."

Duncan's only answer was an enigmatic little smile. She wanted to hit him.

"About the armor—do Grey Wardens have some kind of…uniform?"

"Yes and no."

"Thanks for clearing that up," she rolled her eyes.

"The cost of making a new set of armor for every new recruit would be exorbitant." Another way of saying '_most recruits die fast, so armor would be a waste'_. "Yet there are so few of us in Ferelden, people are hesitant to believe us when we claim to be Grey Wardens."

"And wearing a griffon on your chest is supposed to help?" Mahariel gestured to the beast emblazoned on his chest plate.

"You would be surprised," Duncan said drily.

"If griffons are extinct, why do you still wear them on your armor?"

"Symbolic. Much like the markings on your face."

"My vallaslin?"

He had a point. It wasn't like she believed in the Creators and, even if she _did_, she wouldn't believe they were involved in her life. Fen'Harel had tricked them, locked them away. They were extinct, too, in their own way.

"That just seems so…" Mahariel struggled to find the right word. "Sentimental?"

"Grey Wardens are still people, Mahariel. We long for better days like anyone else."

She thought of the necklace at her throat, the knife at her back. She thought of Merrill's scarf. She thought about the band on her right arm, a braided leather strap inscribed with elvish she couldn't read. Tamlen's gift to her, symbolic of their love. He had worn one to match. Not inscribed with elvish maybe, but made with all her love.

The Dalish were a hard people, and Mahariel was nothing if not Dalish. Yet she was a person still, with her own peculiarities and inconsistencies. It was foolish holding on to all these things, yet… She would allow herself these keepsakes, even if they brought her as much sorrow as joy.


	11. A Warm Welcome

**Chapter Eleven  
**_A Warm Welcome_

Mahariel smelled Ostagar long before she saw its spires creeping up out of the hillside like weathered old bones. It stank of sweat, piss, and dog. The same pungent odor that seemed to accompany every large gathering of shems. Or maybe it was just the Fereldens.

"What is this place?" she asked, dashing to catch up with Duncan. The moment he'd glimpsed the ruin, the Warden had picked up his pace, eager to be done with his journey. From what she'd put together, the Warden had been on a tour of Ferelden, seeking recruits. There were two others awaiting them at Ostagar, one he'd pulled from the gallows in Denerim and the other a fancy knight or lord or some such from Highever.

She had to wonder at Grey Warden standards if a thief and a lordling and a half-dead Dalish were the best Duncan could do.

"An old Tevinter fortress."

Mahariel's face screwed up in disgust. Nothing good had ever come from those people. "Wonderful."

"Completely devoid of actual Tevinters, I assure you," Duncan's voice had a teasing little lilt to it. After two days on the road with the man, Mahariel had finally begun to understand the nuances of his voice. He wasn't a particularly expressive man; reading him took a little practice. Reminded her a bit of Tamlen's father, actually.

"It had better be," she grumbled.

"Most of Ferelden's forces have been camped here for weeks," the Warden explained as they passed beneath the first arch leading up to what was left of the fortress' gates. A shiver ran down Mahariel's spine. "They've already won three battles against the darkspawn."

"Then why are you so nervous about the next?"

"Because now the horde marches on Ostagar. And they might be bringing the archdemon with them."

"Oh, I see. This is a trap."

Duncan smiled. "Yes. We created a target the horde could not resist. And Ostagar is defensible. Here, we meet them on our terms."

"Easier to fight them here than one raiding party at a time."

"Yes. Much rides on the outcome of this battle. If the darkspawn make it north…"

"It isn't darkspawn blades that do the most damage in a Blight. I remember the stories."

"Then you understand that we—Your Majesty?" Duncan stopped abruptly, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing toward the approaching shems. The one in the gleaming golden armor stepped forward, laughing as he grasped the Warden's hand. "I wasn't expecting—"

"A royal welcome?" the golden shem teased. "And what is this?" He gestured to Mahariel. "Is this the new recruit the other Wardens mentioned?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Duncan nodded. "Allow me to introduce you."

Mahariel awkwardly imitated Duncan's greeting, which seemed to please the shemlen king. Everything seemed to please him; his smile hadn't faltered yet. "Andraste's knickers, man, we're about to spill blood together! There's no need to be so _formal_."

If this was the kind of man that shems followed… Well, it certainly explained a lot. "Might I know your name?" The king asked.

"I doubt it, but stranger things have happened," Mahariel arched a brow. Duncan gave her a sharp look which she pretended not to notice.

The king burst into giggles. "You've got a live one here, Duncan. Watch out for her." He gave Mahariel a little wink, inclining his head ever so slightly. If Duncan's bemused expression was any measure, this king was odd even by _shemlen_ standards.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Duncan answered.

"I would love to stay and chat, but Loghain is just _itching_ to bore me with his strategies," _his majesty_ grumbled like a petulant child, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, we've already won three battles. What more is there to plan?" He turned with a sigh, the sunlight glinting off his golden hair. "I'm not even sure this is a real Blight."

"Disappointed, Your Majesty?" Duncan smirked.

The king did not even have the good grace to be embarrassed. "I _had_ hoped for something like in the tales," he sighed. "The Grey Wardens riding into battle with the king, valiantly crushing the darkspawn threat!" The king pounded his fist into his open palm, just to make sure they understood the _crushing_ bit.

Mahariel knew that look, knew that voice. And she knew it _well_. Tamlen had dreamt of glory, too, of the songs their children's children would sing about his deeds. Of the statues they would build and the histories they would write. Of course, it wasn't so much _glory_ he sought as it was _love_ and _respect_. Tamlen had only ever wanted to matter. And to Mahariel, nothing had mattered more. If only she had told him that.

"We shouldn't keep you from your duties, Majesty," Duncan said, offering another of his bows even though the king couldn't see it. Mahariel followed suit.

"No, of course not. I would like to speak with you later," the king glanced over his shoulder at the Warden and Lyna. "And your new recruit. May I seek you out at your tents?"

"This is _your_ camp," Duncan observed.

"So it is." With one last smile, the king nodded farewell and was off, humming some happy tune Mahariel didn't recognize. His guard fell into formation behind him.

"He is not leading the charge, I hope," she said once they were gone.

Duncan shook his head, half-amused and half-reproving. A look she had seen countless times before. "That is the King of Ferelden, Mahariel, and he is our ally. There are not so many of us that we can afford to anger him."

"I don't think that man knows _how_ to be angry, Duncan."

"Do not let appearances deceive you. The King is no fool."

Mahariel would be reserving judgment on that. No sensible person walked around in armor like _that_.

Okay, perhaps she wasn't in the best place to be judging people's armor.

"This Joining—"

"Yes. We should begin preparations immediately."

"I'm as eager to take care of this Taint business as anyone, but I was thinking a hot meal might be nice first. And I wouldn't say no to a nap."

* * *

As it happened, naps were luxuries not afforded to Grey Wardens. Not even Grey Warden recruits.

Once she'd been fed, Duncan had sent Mahariel off in search of an 'Alistair'. He was another Warden and tasked with helping the recruits prepare for the Joining, which was, as she had been reassured once again, _definitely_ not a sadistic shemlen sex thing.

Just as she had expected, most of the shemlen at Ostagar did not notice her at all. The few that _did _see her looked at her with cruelty in their eyes. Also unsurprising. A lone elf, and a _woman_ no less, must look like easy prey to them. Mahariel met every predatory stare, daring the shems to test her.

It was odd, being at Ostagar, surrounded on all sides by shemlen. On the one hand, looking out for trouble was exhausting and a good distraction. On the other hand, knowing that she _needed_ to watch her back made her miss her clan all the more. She missed her family, her home. She missed knowing there was somewhere to lay down her burdens. She would have given anything to curl up with Tamlen one last time.

"Elf!" Mahariel flinched away from the shem blocking her path. "What are you, deaf? I wasn't shouting at you for my health!"

She snarled at the man, dropping into a defensive stance without really meaning to. After two days of travel and twice as many fighting the Taint, she was in no mood for diplomacy. If the shems saw fit to hang her for this, then...

"Crazy bitch," he grumbled, apparently oblivious to the danger he was in. "Take this to the king's tent." He waved a little square of parchment at her. "And be quick about it or I'll have your hide!"

Mahariel grabbed the fat shem's outstretched wrist, using it to yank him closer. "Mind the way you speak to me, _shem_, or it will be _your_ hide." Out of curiosity, she snatched the note away. The man stumbled backward in shock, his thoughts written plain on his face. Any moment he would start shouting, calling for her death or imprisonment or whatever passed for justice among shemlen.

Mahariel rammed her face into his in one quick, powerful jerk. The shem hit the ground with a thud.

"That will leave a mark."

A woman in full plate stood off to the side, almost casual except for the hand resting on her sword's hilt. She was taller than any human woman Mahariel had seen. Broad, too, even beneath the armor, with pale, freckled skin and a jaw like a sledgehammer. The waning sunlight glinted off the orange of the woman's hair, tied away from her face by a leather band.

"Good," Mahariel said, maintaining her defensive posture. It was too bad Duncan hadn't already arranged for that armor he'd mentioned. "He could use the reminder."

The woman laughed, a short little bark, and dropped her hand from her sword. "He's not the only one." She extended her hand. "I'm Aveline."

"Mahariel." Hesitantly, she grasped the woman's hand.

"You must be new."

"Yes. I just arrived a few hours ago. With Duncan."

Aveline nodded like she understood. "So you're the new Warden."

"Is there _anyone_ who doesn't know about me?"

"Him, apparently." The woman gestured to the shem laid out on the ground. "No one's given you too much trouble I hope."

Mahariel shook her head. "Nothing I can't handle. I'm trying to find another Warden. Alistair. Have you seen him?"

"Haven't seen him," Aveline smirked, "but I _have_ heard him. Just head north until you spot a mage lighting someone on fire. That'll be him."

"He's a mage?"

"Oh no. He'll be the one on fire."

"Ma serannas, Aveline." Mahariel crossed her arms over her chest and bowed, finding the motion a little less stiff now.

"Good hunting!"


	12. A Woman and an Elf

**Chapter Twelve  
**_A Woman and an Elf_

As promised, Alistair was not difficult to find. He had not yet been set on fire, but Mahariel was confident that her presence was the only thing preventing it.

"Your glibness does you _no_ credit," a beleaguered-looking mage huffed at him, folding his arms and turning up his nose. His robes were very fancy, richly-dyed and heavy with embroidery. He had a ring on every finger, each set with a larger stone than the last, and several chains of gold and silver dangled from his neck. Even his boots were clean—his _boots_. Was there an enchantment for warding off dog shit and mud?

"And here I thought we were getting along so well!" the Warden said drily. "I was even going to name one of my children after you… the _grumpy_ one."

Alistair and the mage were different as day and night; for all of the mage's finery and decadence, the Warden looked like he'd got in a fight with a swamp and lost. Badly. His armor—not dissimilar from Duncan's, if a little less clean—was dented and scratched and well-worn. The fabric he wore showed obvious spots of patching and fraying and his boots were caked knee high in mud and who knew what else. Probably dog shit. They were in Ferelden after all. Mahariel took care to stay upwind of him; if the grime smudged across his face was any indication, he had not washed in some time.

The mage yielded rather dramatically, throwing his hands into the air. "Fine!" He huffed. "I will speak with the woman if I must!"

Alistair watched the man storm off with a grin, apparently unconcerned by his ire. He almost looked _proud_ to have ruffled the man's feathers. It reminded her of Tamlen. And the sharp, aching pain of loss.

"Y'know… one good thing about the Blight," Alistair turned to Mahariel, "is how it brings people together."

She arched a brow at him. "Indeed. What's a little death and despair in the face of newfound friendship?"

"Yes, exactly," Alistair chuckled. "We could all stand in a circle and hold hands! _That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about."

"Tremble before the might of the Wardens," she drawled.

Alistair laughed heartily at that. Part of her wanted to laugh along, but another part was more concerned about what kind of Order she had joined. Or was going to join, if everything went to plan. The type of person the Wardens seemed to attract was not particularly heartening. "I'm sorry, we haven't met have we?" Alistair asked. "You—er—you're not a mage, are you?"

"And what if I am?" Mahariel lifted her chin in defiance. She would never consider her measly measure of magic enough to make her a mage, but prejudice irked her. It didn't _surprise_ her, given what she knew of shems, but it _did_ irk her.

"Uh… really? You are? You don't _look_ like a mage."

"And what does a mage look like?"

Alistair scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Y'know, they're… Um. I guess—robes?"

She snorted. Perhaps all shemlen mages looked like that peacock of a man the Warden had harassed before. "I am Mahariel, the new recruit."

"Oh! Right, yes. Mahariel—" Alistair butchered her name. Badly. "Er—that wasn't right, was it?" He tried and failed again. And again. And again.

"Lyna," she interrupted. "Just… call me Lyna."

"Lyna. Right. I think I can manage Lyna," he smiled sheepishly. "I'm Alistair. But I guess you already knew that, didn't you? Well, I have to say you aren't what I was expecting!"

Mahariel narrowed her eyes. "An elf?"

"No, Duncan mentioned you were Dalish. He _didn't_ mention that you were a woman. There have never been many women in the Order, you know. I wonder why that is?"

Had he been anyone else, she might have thought his words were some kind of veiled insult. Or a threat. Shems had funny ideas about women. But this Warden didn't seem the type to _veil_ anything, not even the things he ought. He just babbled on, spouting seemingly every thought that occurred to him. Reminded her a bit of Merrill.

"Looking for more women in the Wardens are you?" Mahariel crossed her arms, feigning offense. There was something pleasant about making this man uncomfortable. Perhaps because he made it so _easy_.

The Warden blushed. Hard. "No! I mean, would that be so terrible? Not that I'm a drooling lecher or anything—Oh, Maker, please stop looking at me like that."

Mahariel couldn't help herself. She laughed. "You seem nervous, Alistair."

"Nervous? Why would I be nervous?" The Warden forced a strained chuckle. "Duncan is probably eager to get started. We should get back to him."

"Oh, yes, of course," Mahariel agreed with mock severity. "Wouldn't want to keep Duncan waiting."

* * *

"You there! Elf!"

"You there! Shem!" Mahariel snarled back, rounding on the grizzly-looking shemlen. There went her good spirits. And to think they'd almost made it back to Duncan's camp without incident. The shem took a small step back, bumping into a fence. Behind him, mabari growled.

"I—I didn't mean any offense. Apologies," the man's head dipped and he looked to Alistair, pleading. To the Warden's credit, he didn't offer the man any defense. "I only wanted to ask a favor."

"And you thought calling me '_elf_' was the way to do it?" Mahariel snapped, her face warming with her anger.

"No, of course you're right, it was foolish. My apologies."

She rolled her eyes. "What is it that you want? I don't have all day." As her vision started blurring at the edges, Mahariel reflected that she really might _not_ have all day. The Keeper's magic was wearing off—and fast.

"These mabari—" he gestured to the drooling animals behind him, gnashing their teeth and snapping. "They've had too much darkspawn blood. It's made them sick."

"Get to the point."

"I can help them, but this one here—" he gestured to a mabari locked in a pen of its own "—he won't let me near him. I need him muzzled if I'm going to fix him up. I just thought, what with you being, y'know…"

"An elf?"

"Yeah. You lot have a way with animals and nature, right?"

"No," Mahariel rolled her eyes. "_We_ don't."

"Oh. Well, er—"

"But _I_ do." She thought fondly of afternoons in the halla pen with Maren. Of the hare Fenarel's brother had raised from a babe and how it had always preferred her to him. Oh, he'd been so jealous. She supposed he wouldn't have to worry about it now; his competition was gone. Hopefully the hare didn't miss her overly much. "Give me the muzzle. And know that I do this for the mabari, _not_ for you."

"Of course," the kennel master inclined his head and passed her a muzzle, unlocking the dog's pen for her. "Good luck."

"Save your luck. I don't need it."

Mahariel met the creature's eyes, holding its gaze as she slowly entered its pen. It growled and snarled and snapped, backing into a corner. She did not flinch away, did not blink. "Be calm," she murmured. "I mean you no harm." The dog snarled, but cocked its head. "You heard me. Now calm yourself and let's be done with this." The mabari let out a high whine, dropping its head and scooting as deep into the corner as it could get. She rolled her eyes.

"Don't be such a baby," she chided, kneeling before the creature. "I know it hurts, but if you let us, we can make it better. Understand?" Mahariel jerked her head back toward the shemlen hovering nervously at the gate then extended her arms toward the dog. After a moment's hesitation, he buried his nose in her palms, sniffing and nudging. Testing her.

"Be quick about it," she grumbled, and the mabari concluded his inspection. Mahariel had apparently passed. "Good. Now hold still. You won't like this, but it _is_ necessary. Do you trust me?" The dog whined, plopping into the dirt before her. He continued to whine, the big baby, but did not move while she put the muzzle on. Once she was finished, she rewarded the creature with a thorough ear scratching. "That's a good boy," she murmured. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth appreciatively.

"I think he likes you," Alistair observed from a safe distance, grinning.

"What's not to like?" The retort felt empty even to her own ears. Mahariel forced a laugh, but it was dry and lifeless.

"I—uh—I hear you're headed into the Wilds," the kennel master said, speaking more to Alistair than her. The Warden glanced nervously between her and the grizzled shem, but finally nodded.

"We might be," Alistair tried and failed to sound casual. It was almost comforting to know what a terrible liar he was.

"If you do, you might be on the lookout for something. A flower. Their medicine," he jerked his thumb at the mabari slobbering all over Mahariel's hands, "I can't make anymore without it."

"What flower?" she asked, using the dog's belly as a rag to wipe its saliva from her hands. He seemed to enjoy that, too.

"Called a Korcari blossom. Looks a bit like—"

"I know what it looks like," Mahariel cut him off. "No promises, but we'll keep an eye out. For _them_. Not for you."

"Of course." The kennel master shrank back as she emerged from the pen. The mabari whined at her from behind the gate, cocking his head in confusion. She knelt down and rubbed his ears one last time.

"Don't worry, big guy. We'll see each other again." He yipped happily, if a little weakly. She felt the shemlen's eyes on her back and scowled. "We have to go."

"Thank you!" The kennel master shouted at her retreating back. Alistair jogged to catch up.

"You're a bit scary, you know that?"

Mahariel cast the Warden a sidelong look, her mouth quirking up just so. "Good."


	13. Into the Wilds

**A/N:** Sorry for the long delay between updates. I had intended to leave a vacation notice on my last update but forgot. I am back now and updates will resume twice weekly. Thanks for reading!

The other recruits awaited them at the Wardens' tents, but Duncan himself was nowhere to be seen. Mahariel frowned, wiping away the moisture that had gathered at her brow. The Taint curled in her veins, pulsing like a living thing. She felt it with every breath, with every beat of her corrupted heart. Time was running short.

"Have you met Daveth and Ser Jory yet?" Alistair asked, waving genially to the two shemlen hovering by the fire. The plump one raised a hand in greeting.

"No." Mahariel watched the lanky one's eyes rove languidly over her body, his sharp features curling up in a smirk. The fat one looked at her less with desire and more with suspicion. Or was it contempt? If she knew anything about shems, it was probably both.

"Well would you look at that," the shifty one drawled, his voice slick and viscous as oil. _Daveth_, she thought, _the thief_. "Pay up, Ser Knight. I told you he wasn't bringing back no mages."

The plump one grumbled, fishing a coin from his pouch. "You didn't say he'd bring back a woman, though."

"Doesn't matter. Still won," the thief leered. "Good thing she's a woman, though. I was getting tired of watching you lot scratch your balls."

Alistair shifted uncomfortably beside her. "Right, so introductions. Daveth, Ser Jory," he gestured to the two men respectively, "this is our newest recruit, Lyna. Lyna, this is—"

"Daveth and Ser Jory?"

"Nothing gets by you," he grinned. "Gentlemen, I trust you'll make her feel at home."

"You bet I will," Daveth grinned. Ser Jory scowled at him, but Mahariel did not fool herself into thinking it was for her benefit. It was probably the thief's lack of manners or honor or some such nonsense that upset the knight. Thinking vulgar thoughts was not an offense, but saying them out loud? And in the presence of a woman?

Honestly, she would _never_ understand shemlen. Not even if she wanted to.

"Where is Duncan?" Mahariel asked.

"He might be with the king, discussing strategy," Alistair offered.

"We met the king when we arrived. Discussing strategy with _him_ would be a waste of time."

"Keep your voice down, would you? I came down here to _avoid_ getting strung up," Daveth complained. Ser Jory gaped at her, his wooly eyebrows scrunching together with shock. She did not fail to notice that the Warden offered no chastisement. Perhaps they were more outside the command of kings than this camp suggested?

"Do shemlen make a habit of hanging people for speaking the truth?" Mahariel asked, knowing full well the answer.

"Yes!" Both Alistair and Daveth answered her, emphatically and in unison.

"We should find Duncan."

"There is no need," the Warden appeared, as though summoned by his very name. The glow of the fire cast the lines of his face in dark relief, making him look more weary than ever. Mahariel wondered—not for the first time since that blighted cave—if death might have been the better path. "We must prepare for the Joining as soon as possible. Assuming you're finished riling up the mages, Alistair." Duncan cast a withering look at his charge.

"The revered mother _ambushed_ me," Alistair defended. "The way that woman wields guilt, they should stick her in the army."

"Forced you to sass the mage, did she?" Duncan crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head. When he spoke again, it was with an exasperation that Mahariel knew well. Exasperation that said: we've had this conversation five thousand times before, how long until you finally listen? It almost brought a smile to her face. Almost. "We cannot afford to antagonize anyone Alistair. They need no more ammunition against us."

The other Warden hung his head sheepishly, nodding. "Of course, Duncan. I—I apologize."

"Good. Now let's waste no more time." Mahariel did not miss the way Duncan's eyes fell upon her. How much had the Warden shared about her? Did the others know she was already tainted?"Before we begin the ritual, you must enter the Korcari Wilds."

"The Wilds? Now? At _night_?" Predictably, it was Daveth with an objection.

"There is still light. If you hold your tongue, we might get underway before full dark," Mahariel snapped. The Taint's breath seemed to grow even hotter against her neck.

"First, you must obtain three vials of darkspawn blood. One for each recruit." Sensing objections, she turned on her new comrades with the fiercest look at her command, her signature 'make shemlen piss themselves' look. Both men swallowed their words, allowing the Warden to continue. "Second, there is an abandoned Grey Warden outpost in the Wilds. Some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed for protection. Alistair, you will need to retrieve these scrolls."

"Why? What are they?" the other Warden asked.

"Old treaties, promises of support from long ago. It seems they might once again be of use."

"Old treaties and darkspawn blood. Got it." Mahariel turned to the other recruits, checking the straps on her bow and daggers. She wondered at the strain between the Wardens and the rest of the camp—Duncan had alluded to it several times now—but her curiosity would have to wait. If they didn't get this Joining over with soon, Grey Warden alliances would be of little consequence to her."Let's move, then. We're wasting daylight."

#

Alistair's gaze flicked between the arrow in the soldier's eye and the elven woman holding the bow.

"A friend of yours?" Daveth huffed a laugh, nearly concealing the quaver in his voice. Beside him Ser Jory gaped, horrified and indignant and perfectly incapable of proper speech. Alistair knew the feeling.

"He was already dead." Lyna plucked the arrow from the man's eye, cleaning it and restoring it to her quiver casually as you please. When she was done, she met Alistair's gaze evenly, unflinching and unapologetic.

Finally he found his tongue. "Not half so dead as he looked."

She laughed—had the _nerve_ to laugh. Not that there was any real humor behind the sound. "If only that were true. Come, before we lose the light completely." She was pushing forward before any of them could protest.

Duncan's earlier words came back in a rush, a whispered warning for only him after the recruits had gone on to the gates. "_Watch her, Alistair_," he'd said. "_Watch her_."

Alistair had thought 'watch' meant 'protect'. He wasn't privy to the specifics, but he could sense the taint in Lyna's blood. Whatever circumstances had brought her to the Wardens, they could not have been pleasant. He had thought Duncan only meant him to watch her back, to pick up the slack while she tried to hold herself together. More the fool he. Looking at her now, Alistair saw that it wasn't _Lyna_ who needed protecting. It was the people around her. He was meant to be watching her for something far more sinister than weakness.

What had possessed Duncan to recruit such a woman? He knew, he _understood_, that Grey Wardens did whatever was necessary to defeat the Blight, but...

The clanking of his armor sounded unnaturally loud as he rushed to catch up with the elf; she picked her way through the rushes unhindered by the encroaching darkness, swift and silent as a thief. Or an assassin.

"He was already dead," she repeated before Alistair could open his mouth, having already guessed his thoughts. "Don't pretend you didn't feel it in him, either. We were too late. He was already dead."

"I can sense the taint in you, too," he hissed, quietly enough that the others could not hear, "but you don't see me putting an arrow through _your_ eye."

"You couldn't put an arrow through my eye if you wanted to." Lyna glanced sidelong at the shield on his back, arching a brow at him. He couldn't decide if it was a jest or a challenge or an outright insult. Elves were difficult to read. Or maybe it was just women?

He decided to call it a jest. He knew what to do with that, at least. "I could, too," he pouted. "Maybe not with a _bow_…"

Lyna came to an abrupt stop. Almost before Alistair saw her move she was pressing an arrow to his palm, challenge and something else flashing in her eyes. "Then do it," she snapped, not even feigning humor anymore. "If I killed that man wrongly, then my life is forfeit. Take it." When he didn't move, she closed his fingers around the arrow. Her skin was burning hot, radiating warmth even through the gloves. "Do it."

Alistair threw the arrow down the moment his mind caught up to the sudden change of events. "Andraste's knickers, woman! I'm not going to stab you in the eye! No!"

Lyna flinched, her face screwing up in something between disgust and… disappointment? Maker, but elves were difficult to read. "There are things worse than death," she spoke softly now, shifting away from him. "Giving that man his life would have been no mercy. He was too far gone and you know it." She didn't say she might not be far behind him; she didn't need to. Alistair could sense the darkness advancing inside her. Whatever had been protecting her from the corruption before was fading. Fast.

"Too far gone?" Ser Jory finally found his voice. "What is she talking about?"

"_She_," Lyna spat, apparently experiencing yet another drastic mood swing, "is talking about us becoming darkspawn snacks if we don't _get moving_." The fire returned to the elf's eyes as she rounded on Jory who, to his credit, stood his ground in the face of her anger.

"That soldier—" Alistair gestured vaguely toward the body now long behind them. "— he was Tainted. Had the darkspawn plague."

"How do you reckon?" Daveth asked.

"I just… know." Maker, why had Duncan saddled _him_ with this task? Keeping secrets had never been on the very _short_ list of things at which Alistair excelled.

"And her?" The thief was understandably skeptical. Alistair racked his brain for a plausible lie and came up empty-handed. It shouldn't have surprised him that Lyna did not share his struggle. Women were _wily_.

"_She_ is a Dalish. We have a sense for these sorts of things. Corruption."

Even knowing nothing about the Dalish, Alistair knew this was a lie. Lyna had told it well, though, and their comrades seemed satisfied for the moment. Ignorance, apparently, had its uses. Something else to add to his list of skills.

"Speaking of corruption," Alistair held up a hand, bringing their group to a full stop. The recruits armed themselves without needing to be told, reading the danger in Alistair's posture. Duncan would be pleased. "Darkspawn ahead. Scouting party, I think. Prepare yourselves."


End file.
